MERRY CHRISTMAS SYBIL/TOM SHIPPERS! Here it is (finally) my contribution to the Sybil/Tom Secret Santa Fanfic Exchange, FOR the-she-celt!

Her prompt was simply, write a story featuring our favorite pair in fluffy/smutty goodness, and that Sybil wear Tom's rugby shirt ;o) well, simple sounding enough, but of course, I always end up writing "plot" (or try to) and so this fic became a monster (and if you will believe it, there is still more that *could* be written, but I'll leave that to you (and of course to our dear she-celt) to decide :oP

Also, special thanks to repmet, cassiemortmain, and gothamgirl28 for their brainstorming help while I worked on this. Hope you enjoy and again, Happy Holidays!

The Cardinal Rules
by The Yankee Countess

Christmas in the Branson household was never what anyone would call a "grand affair", but that suited the Bransons just fine. While Tom and his siblings never received a mountain of presents each, they were happy with the lot they had, right down to the inevitable package of new socks and underwear that his grandmother always made sure to get them every year. Because after all, there were children in their beloved Dublin who would be receiving far less, and perhaps have to face Christmas with more than just a lack of presents or decorated tree, but with an eviction notice and empty bellies to boot. No, their little Christmas celebration was not grand by any means, but it was perfect for them, and they had all learned, thanks to their mother, to count their blessings each and every day.

Little Tom Branson was seven years old that Christmas, and had only asked for one thing, which were some toy race cars he could play with (after watching Formula One at one of his uncle's, he was fascinated), and while his other siblings teased and played, and his mother worked in the kitchen on their Christmas lunch, Tom sat in his own corner, making various "Vroom! Vroom!" sounds with his set of cars, completely oblivious that there was one last package left under the tree…and it that it had his name on it.

His older brother Kieran, however, had noticed. "Oy! Tommy, there's something still here for you!"

Tom turned away and frowned as he looked at the package. It wasn't large, but it was bulky looking, and had been wrapped what looked like remnants of yesterday's newspaper. Before he could open his mouth to voice his curiosity at the odd looking item, his father was kneeling in front of him grinning, taking the package and holding it in his hands. "Open it, son," Aidan Branson grinned, a twinkle of anticipation in his eye as held the gift out to the youngest Branson boy.

Tom reluctantly put down his cars and began to rip through the newspaper; Margaret Branson turned her head and watched from the kitchen entrance, while her husband sat back on his knees, grinning and waiting as finally…Tom pulled the item free from its newspaper confines.

A shirt?

An old shirt too…and one that was very, very big. Not even Kieran could wear this thing!

But slowly…it began to dawn on the young Tom that this shirt wasn't unfamiliar—no, as he held it up and away from him to get a better look, he quickly began to recognize it.

"Irish Rugby Football Union," his father stated proudly, his own hands now taking the shirt's shoulders and holding it up for his son. It was a dark green color, with gold horizontal stripes across the chest and upper arms, and in the upper left-hand corner, there was the image of a gold harp, a symbol that Tom didn't see a great deal anymore on rugby shirts, which perhaps revealed how old the shirt truly was.

His father answered this question for him. "I got this for myself when I was a lad; this shirt has been with me longer than your mother!"

"Oy!" Margaret scowled, but Aidan only grinned and blew her a kiss, before turning his attentions back to his son.

"I always loved rugby, as you know; and I have no greater pride than in the IRFU. I've worn this shirt for so many matches—seen and cheered at every victory, wept and swore at every loss. But the time has come, Tommy, for me to pass this shirt and all the memories it carries…onto you."

Tom stared in awe at the old shirt his father held, completely enraptured by the story. He reached out to take it back, but stopped, a frown of confusion spreading across his face. "Why me?" he asked. "Kieran's older; why am I getting it and not him?"

"Because I'm a boxer!" Kieran answered, while mimicking a fake punch at Tom. Tom rolled his eyes and without another moment's hesitation, took the shirt from his father's hands.

Aidan Branson smiled, helping his young son put the shirt on, laughing at how much it engulfed the boy, but having no doubt that one day Tom would grow into it. But whether he was seven or seventy, Aidan trusted that Tom would wear it with pride—the boy wasn't so different from himself.

"Now Tommy, listen here; you must pay attention, this is very important." Aidan drew his son close, his face one of complete seriousness, so much so that Tom reflected the look, and leaned in as if he were about to receive a huge secret. "There are three cardinal rules to having this shirt," Aidan began.

"Oh here we go," Margaret muttered from the kitchen, rolling her eyes in anticipation to the so-called "wisdom" her husband was about to impart.

"#1…you must never wash it during the season."

"Aidan!" Margaret paused in her cooking and fixed her husband with a disgusted look. However, if he had noticed it, he chose to ignore it and move on.

"#2…when you do wash it, you mustn't wash it with anything else—always keep it separate from the rest of the laundry."

"Oh honestly," Margaret groaned.

"And #3…perhaps the most important rule of all…" Aidan dramatically declared, to which Tom held his breath as he listened. "Never…under ANY circumstance…are you to allow a girl to wear it!"

The clatter of mixing spoon in the bowl Margaret was using practically echoed throughout the entire house. She fixed her husband a look, one that would freeze the devil if he dared show his face, but Aidan flashed her that roguish smile of his that all the Branson men were known for (and that had convinced her to marry the fool), before looking back at his son. "At least a girl who isn't Irish," he softly amended, giving his wife a wink, but she shook her head and returned her attentions to her kitchen task. "Certainly no English girl," he added, now winking at his son.

Tom made a face at the very idea that some girl—especially some English girl—may one day "taint" his father's shirt (not to mention the IRFU). He wrapped his arms around himself, which was a funny thing to see, since the sleeves were so long that they helplessly hung at his sides. But Tom paid no heed; he simply nodded his head, looking serious and determined. "I promise to never break the rules," he swore, ignoring his brother's snickering behind him.

Aidan laughed and put a large hand on the back of his son's head, pulling the boy forward to kiss his brow before rising to go and sneak a kiss from his pouting wife. Margaret muttered something again from the kitchen (something about the idiocy of men), and Tom's siblings resumed their play from before. But Tom was all too enraptured by the unique gift his father had given him. His toy cars were forgotten (at least for the time being)—all he could do was gaze down at the long rugby sleeves and feel pride swell inside his chest, the Irish national anthem playing loudly in his head.

Like father like son, Tom Branson had now also fallen in love with the IRFU. And it was impossible for him to imagine anything else coming close in comparison.

10 Years later…

"MAM!" Tom all but screamed from the top of the stairs. He came barreling down in several leaps, his eyes wild and desperate. The game was about to start and he was late; he had rushed home from the garage where both he and Kieran worked to change clothes and put on his shirt, but upon arriving, soon found that the bedpost where he had last hung it, was empty. And he had a bad feeling he knew was responsible. "MAM!" he shouted again, his irritation growing by the second. Where was she? He rushed towards the kitchen, where the door to the back garden lay, and peered out the window.

There she was, hanging up the wash.

…Hanging up the wash.

…Hanging up…no, no, no, NO!

"MAM!" Tom cried, the door banging against the brick of the house as he dashed outside to where his mother was standing. "MAM, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

Margaret Branson jumped at the sound of her son's shouts. Her hand flew to her chest as she whirled around. "Good God, Tommy! You gave me a fright—"

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?" Tom groaned, ignoring his mother and staring in horror at the item she had just hung up on the line.

His shirt.

Margaret stared at her son, and then looked at the shirt she had just pegged. Her eyes went back to Tom's profile, and a groan rose up from her throat as she recalled her husband's idiotic rules about that bloody shirt.

"That thing was filthy and it needed to be washed," she answered plainly, folding her arms across her chest and doing her best to assert authority (which had been significantly easier when her son was younger because he had been smaller then).

"BUT IT'S THE WORLD CUP, MAM!" Tom cried, turning at last and meeting his mother's gaze, his own looking like he had never seen this woman in his life. "YOU KNOW THE RULES—"

"Oh those rules are nothing but silly superstitions! That shirt was filthy and needed to be washed! I will not have you, or your father, or ANY so-called 'cardinal rugby rules' bringing vermin into my house, you understand me, Tom Branson?" she shook her finger in his face to emphasize her point. "And I do not appreciate being shouted at!" she added for good measure.

Tom fought the urge to say something back, but in the end he just turned and trudged back inside the house, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Fantastic—there he was ready to go over to a cousin's to watch the game (granted, Ireland wasn't playing today, but that was beside the point—you just didn't wash the shirt during a season, period!)—and here he stood, without his shirt to show his support for the IRFU.

"Just put on something green! Anything will do!" she called after him. "Show your support in spirit!"

Tom groaned and rolled his eyes, glad she couldn't see his face, knowing she would smack him upside the head at such a gesture. But really, just…throw on something green? Really? She just didn't understand! It was more than just…wearing the colors of the national team and rooting for them. It was taking pride one's homeland! That rugby shirt was more than just a shirt…it represented Ireland! In many ways…that shirt felt sacred to him. And people had ways of dealing with "sacred things", hence why there were rules! And the way his mother just…disregarded all that!

…Maybe this was why his father had told him never, under any circumstance, to allow a girl to wear his shirt? Maybe he knew something from experience? Perhaps, like his mother, a girl would insist that he wash it, and see it as nothing but a "silly superstition", rather than take the time to understand the ritual behind it?

As he pulled on a green jumper, frowning at the fact that it wasn't his IRFU shirt, he vowed to himself that he would be more careful, and keep a closer watch on his shirt, as well as its "cardinal rules".

6 years later…

"Oh honestly, Tom, this is so stupid!" his girlfriend muttered in irritation, her laundry basket resting on her hip. Her laundry basket that still happened to be full, despite the fact that he was hanging his newly washed rugby shirt over the shower railing in their flat's tiny bathroom. "You promised me that you would do the laundry!"

Tom gritted his teeth, trying very hard not to say something he would later regret. "And I will! I hadn't forgotten, I was going to start it as soon as my shirt was finished—"

"Oh you and your stupid shirt!" his girlfriend groaned. "I can't believe you insist on washing it by itself—"

"Well after all the complaining you do about how disgusting you think it is when I don't, I would think you would be glad that it doesn't touch any of your things," he muttered back, walking away from the bathroom and moving towards her to take the laundry basket. However, she gripped it tightly and refused to let go.

"Don't bother," she spat as she tugged the basket out of his hands, before turning on her heel and marching out of the bedroom. "I'll do it myself—because clearly I can't rely on you for anything, not even the simplest task!"

Tom bit back the growl in his throat, closed his eyes, counted to five in his head, before following her out of the room. "Come on, love, don't be like that," he sighed. They had been fighting a lot lately, and Tom couldn't deny he was finding himself questioning sometimes, why the two of them remained in this relationship, when clearly neither one of them were happy anymore. Still, he could see his mistake; he should have started on the rest of the laundry first, and then washed his shirt. "Look, I'm sorry, let me—"

"No," she whirled around so quickly, Tom nearly ran into her. But she didn't move, nor did she flinch. She stared back at him with eyes so dark and cold that he actually did shiver under their intensity. "You had your chance, Tom, but you blew it! And I don't want to hear any of your stupid 'excuses'!"

"Love—"

"Oh stop saying that," she groaned. "You love that shirt more than you love me!"

He was supposed to scoff at her accusation, but the problem was there was a part of him that agreed with her.

"You're such an idiot," she muttered, rolling her eyes before turning and continuing her angry stride away from him. "Well I hope it was worth it!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Because you and your fucking shirt can sleep on the couch together!"

Two days later, Tom (and his fucking shirt) moved out.

4 years later…

"Tom!"

He looked up at the sound of his name, and grinned at the sight of the smiling face, one that he hadn't seen in almost a year, grinning back at him and waving his arms to get his attention. Tom made his way across the crowded pub, laughing as he finally reached his old friend's side and without any hesitation, the two men embraced, muttering against the other's shoulder how good it was to see the other. It had only been seven months since Tom had moved to London for his current job, but in some ways it did feel like it had been so long since the two friends had last seen each other.

"Look at you!" Tom laughed as they pulled away. "An engaged man—first round's on me."

Matthew laughed and lifted the bottle he had already been drinking. "I think we're on our second, actually."

"Third round then," Tom dismissed, before turning to the bartender and ordering himself his own drink. "And where is the lovely 'Lady Mary'?"

Matthew rolled his eyes, though there was good humor in them. "She's just over there, and don't you dare say anything to embarrass me!" he warned, trying to look stern.

Tom couldn't help but laugh at the accusation. "Where's the fun in that? I thought that was the duty of old friends, especially ones who you asked to stand in and serve as your 'best man'?"

"You KNOW what I mean," Matthew groaned. "Please leave your opinions about the British aristocracy to yourself!"

Tom made a face, though it was done more to get a rise out of Matthew than anything else. "You're no fun," he teased, before taking the pint from the bartender and lifting it up to offer cheers to his friend. "But just for tonight, I'll try not to be the 'scary Irish revolutionary'."

"Do," Matthew muttered, taking a swig from his bottle. "Or at least until she's gotten to know you and can appreciate your humor—and please, it's just 'Mary'; she only uses her title for formal functions."

Tom shrugged his shoulders, rather enjoying seeing his friend in this nervous state. Despite all his teasing, he would never do anything to purposefully make Matthew look bad in front of his new fiancée. And while Tom could not deny that he did have some prejudices towards the British aristocracy and the political parties many of them backed, his feelings on this subject truly didn't matter, especially as he recalled the love-sick conversations he had been exchanging with Matthew, his friend clearly over the moon for this woman. And why not? Matthew was a decent bloke, he deserved some happiness.

"I heard my name, and thought it best to make an appearance."

Tom turned then and stared back at the tall, dark-haired woman who stepped forward and wrapped her hand around Matthew's left forearm. Wow, Matthew hadn't been exaggerating when he had described Mary as having a "striking" presence.

"Tom, this is Mary, my fiancée," Matthew introduced, smiling with pride as he murmured the words, his eyes reflecting nothing but the deepest love as he gazed at the woman beside him.

Tom smiled back, once again feeling glad for his friend's happiness. "Tom Branson," he murmured, reaching forward to shake Mary's hand.

"Oh! So this is the famous Tom I've heard so much about!" Mary declared after shaking his hand.

Tom's brows lifted at this. "Famous?" he grinned and fixed Matthew with a curious stare. "My reputation precedes me I see."

Matthew rolled his eyes, to which Tom couldn't help but laugh. "Careful darling, don't give him a bigger head than he already has."

Mary smiled before turning her attentions back to Tom. "Don't worry, Matthew has done nothing but sing your praises to me."

"Mary, I said don't give him a bigger head than he already has!" Matthew groaned, to which Tom couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"Well since you're Matthew's best man, you should meet a few other members of the bridal party…" Mary proceeded to explain, looking over her shoulder. "That's my sister Edith," she pointed to a young woman, with dark blonde hair, who Tom noticed was holding onto the arm of an older man. "…And the man she's with is her husband, Anthony—don't make the mistake of confusing him and thinking he's our father, or Edith will make your life a living hell." Tom chuckled somewhat nervously, unsure if Mary was teasing him or being completely serious. "Oh! And that's Sybil, my youngest sister, who will be serving as my maid of honor—Sybil! Over here!"

Tom's eyes followed Mary's gesturing hand…and then froze as a woman with somewhat wild, unruly brown curls turned at the sound of her name, only to grin back and approach the lot of them.

Oh God, her smile…he had never seen anything more beautiful. Her face just…radiated from it. And a wonderful warmth seemed to envelope as he watched her approach. But nothing prepared him for when her eyes met his, and Tom swore in that moment, the world truly had come to a stop.

Her eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue he had ever seen. No color would ever compare—in the future he would go on to call that particular shade "Sybil's blue". She met his gaze and momentarily ceased her steps, her radiant smile vanishing, just for a moment, but it was enough to cause Tom's heart to stop for fear that he had done something wrong. But soon it was replaced by another smile, a different kind, one that was a little shy and bashful. She swallowed, and proceeded to lift her hands to her unruly hair and unconsciously (or perhaps not so unconsciously) try to bring some order to it, tucking strands behind her ears, lowering her eyes or fixing them directly on Mary, before every so often glancing back at him from beneath her lashes.

"Sybil, this is Matthew's friend, Tom," Mary introduced, gesturing towards the Irishman. Tom felt the breath catch in his throat as he watched a lovely, rosy flush darken Sybil's cheeks, before her eyes finally lifted again to meet his and that pretty, bashful smile spread across her face.

She stepped forward, offering her hand to shake, and murmured a beautiful, husky voice, "pleased to meet you, Tom," to which he dumbly nodded, looking like an idiot he would later recall, and he would forever wince at the memory of the words that passed through his throat next.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he squeaked, before clearing his throat in an attempt to regain his sudden loss of voice. Good God, was he twelve again?

Sybil stared back at him for a moment, and then sweet giggle escaped her lips as she shook her head and lifted the bottle she was already holding. "Thanks, but I have one."

"Don't worry, Sybil; Tom has already agreed to buy us a third round," Matthew informed her, before turning and giving his friend a look, one that seemed to say, "pull yourself together, mate, it's not as if you've never spoken to a beautiful woman before!" which was true, but no woman, at first glance, had captured him the way Mary's younger sister had.

"So, I understand that you're Matthew's old flat mate?" Sybil inquired, taking a small step closer, her smile still bashful, but whatever shyness she had had at their introduction seemed to have disappeared as she was looking directly into his eyes.

Tom took a quick gulp from his pint, needing some liquid courage. What was wrong with him? "Aye, I was," he confirmed. "Four years ago I worked for a small, independent paper in Manchester; Matthew needed a flat mate and I needed a flat…so I answered the advertisement—"

"And the rest, as they say, is history," Sybil grinned, and Tom couldn't help but smile back. "What was the paper, if I may ask?"

Tom noticed Matthew grinning out of the corner of his eye, as if he knew something. "Um…well," he swallowed, unsure how she would take this news. He had to remind himself that this was Mary's sister—which meant she was Lady Sybil, the daughter of an aristocrat…and an aristocrat herself. "You've probably never heard of it, like I said, they were small—"

"And independent, so you said, yes," Sybil grinned, folding her arms across her chest and lifting a curious brow as she waited.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Sybil," Mary groaned, taking pity on poor Tom and turning to face him. "If you're concerned that you'll 'offend us' for it being a left-wing publication, don't worry; I for one care very little about politics, and as for Sybil—"

"I'm a bleeding heart liberal and proud of it," she grinned before turning and winking at Tom. Winking at him! Oh God, his face felt like it was on fire…

"Sybil, I have to hand it to you," Matthew added, grinning as he looked at his friend. "I don't think I've seen Tom stunned into silence." They all laughed and even Tom was able to join in, after getting over his surprise that Lady Sybil Crawley did not fit into any of his stereotypes about the aristocracy. Mary introduced Tom to Edith and Edith's husband, as well as a few other people that were mutual friends of the engaged couple, but as the night wore on, Tom found himself talking more and more with Sybil…and discovering that despite the differences in their upbringing, they actually had a great deal in common. Sybil's self-proclaimed liberalism was clearly not a "phase that she was going through", just to be contrary to her parents; she knew her politics, and they both sat and discussed (and even debated) some of the recent policies happening in Britain, as well as Ireland, (though with that she didn't know a great deal, and so sat and listened), which then turned the conversation to the subject of their childhood's, Sybil admitting that her family "shared" a house with the National Trust, and she remembered spending Christmases and a few other weekends during the year there, while the rest was spent in a large, and rather tacky-looking (in her opinion) country "cottage" in the nearby village.

"I say cottage, because that's what our grandmother calls it," Sybil explained with a roll of her eyes. "But to any normal person, it looks like a palace!"

He laughed, easily imagining the so-called cottage. "And now? Do you still live there?"

She shook her head. "No, I actually share a flat with three other girls in York," she giggled. "Which is rather cozy, as you can imagine," she giggled. "I just started attending the nursing college there; though I hope when my studies and training are finished, to go to London and work in a more urban hospital."

Tom nodded, impressed by everything she had shared. "Would you consider working in another city, just out of curiosity?"

She grinned as she set her drink down after a long sip. "Another city? Like…Dublin?"

He paled and then darkened a bright red. "I…I wasn't implying—"

Her warm laugh stopped him and a sheepish smile spread across his face and she lightly pushed his arm. "I'm kidding," she giggled…though there was something in her voice that didn't sound like she was completely kidding. Nor did it sound like she was against the idea, either. Or was that wishful thinking on his part? "Tell me about Dublin, please!" she asked, leaning closer and smiling up at him. "I've actually never been to Ireland, which I am very much regretting now that I've met you," she murmured.

Was she flirting with him? Or once again, was that wishful thinking? After all, they had had several drinks…

He didn't quite know where to start, so he simply began by telling her about his own childhood, about all his siblings, the house he grew up in, the places he frequented in the city, a warm glow filling his heart as he described them. She smiled and listened and seemed to be leaning close with each passing word. And then, somehow in the midst of that conversation…Tom realized that their hands were touching. And neither of them made a move to pull their own back.

"I'd like to go there someday," she murmured after a while, her eyes looking down at their fingers, which were slightly entwined. "If I do…will you be my tour guide?"

He swallowed and nodded his head. He couldn't recall the last time he had felt such a connection with somebody; they were total strangers, and yet in some ways, as cliché as it sounded, he felt like he had known her his entire life. "I'd love to," he answered, and he meant it.

She blushed and looked down again, her sweet smile once again warming his heart. "And…" she lifted her eyes and for a moment they remained focused on his chest. "Will you take me to a game?"

His brow furrowed with confusion for a moment…and then he looked down at his chest himself, having forgotten the shirt he was wearing.

"Do you play?" she asked.

Tom blushed, his eyes returning to hers once again. "I used to," he sheepishly admitted. "When I was still in Ireland; I haven't found a club to join over here, yet. Don't know if they would take kindly to my shirt."

"Oh I doubt you'd be the only Irish supporter," she grinned. "And you know, just like Dublin, I've never gone to a rugby match either!"

Tom's eyes widened at this. "Well then yes, absolutely, I will take you to a game," and this time when they laughed, he winked at her. And then a realization dawned on him. "Actually…I think the Irish are playing the English in a special exhibition match next month in London on a Saturday! Maybe you could take the train and come down and…" he seemed to just realize then what he was doing, but while his face burned brightly, just like his hand, he did not retract any of his words.

Sybil sat up a little straighter, her own face burning. "Um…" she nibbled on her bottom lip and looked up at him through her lashes. "Are you…asking me out?"

Tom swallowed, his palms suddenly sweating. Oh God, he shouldn't have presumed that she was interested, or that she was single. He was so stupid, of course she wasn't single! How could an amazing woman like her not have someone in her life?

"Because…I…I really would love to," she shyly added, blushing but looking at him in earnest…and squeezing his hand just slightly. "I mean, if…if you—"

"Yes," he answered before another second passed, returning the squeeze, and smiling as their eyes met and held for a long moment.

Earlier that evening he had been debating about what to wear, and more out of a sense of humor, had decided to go with his IRFU shirt (Matthew knew all about his odd rituals when it came to rugby). Never, though, had he imagined that it would be the key to having the courage to ask his future wife out.

1 month later…

Unfortunately, tickets for the Ireland vs. England game were sold out when he tried to get his hands on some, but that didn't mean they still couldn't have their "date", according to Sybil. Her parents kept a house in London (of course they did), so she could stay there, and the both of them could go to a pub to watch the match. Tom couldn't deny he was nervous. He hadn't been on a date since he moved to London, and he hadn't been in a serious relationship for over a year. And even though he still barely knew Sybil, he really didn't want to muck things up. First impressions, after all.

Something else happened too; for the first time, Tom found himself debating about whether or not to wear his shirt.

In the past, this would have been a no brainer; Ireland was playing, OF COURSE he would wear his shirt! But in adhering to the shirt's rules, he hadn't washed it since before the season, and the last thing he wanted was to put Sybil off with his own body odor. I could always do what Mam says, and just wear something green, he thought to himself. But in the end, after several smell checks, he decided to go ahead and wear it—after all, it was Ireland, and here he was, in the capital city of "the enemy." Still, just in case, he wore a plain fitted t-shirt underneath.

He found himself debating again about whether or not he should get her flowers (English roses for an English Rose), but it was Sybil's idea that they meet at the pub, and he could just see how…awkward…it would look, giving her a bouquet of flowers amongst all sorts of rowdy rugby fans. And having attended such events at pubs both in Britain and Ireland, he knew how rowdy these places could get. Maybe he should have insisted that they have the "date" at his place and watch on the telly there? Though the pub had a big flat screen…not to mention he didn't want Sybil to think of him as a creeper, who was simply trying to get into bed with her.

She was even more beautiful than the last time, if that was possible. Her hair was just as wild as before, if not more so, and her face glowed as she smiled at him. Much to his surprise (pleasant surprise) she leaned up and kissed his cheek in greeting, before taking his hand in hers and walking into the pub. "Hope you won't 'disown' me for wearing red and white," she teased as they entered the pub.

Tom shook his head, a part him feeling as though he should pinch himself that she was standing there in front of him once more. "May the best man win," he teased back, ordering himself a Guinness. They agreed that they would take turns, buying each other rounds.

"I think you mean, best person," she corrected, ordering herself a New Castle Brown Ale.

Tom shook his head. "No, in this case I don't."

She swatted his shoulder and he laughed, and just like that, he was reminded how despite the fact that this was only the second time they were meeting face to face…he felt as if he were reuniting with a best friend.

It didn't take long for the pub to become rowdy. Tom thought it best to get a table near the door, in case things got too out of hand, but Sybil wanted to be closer, loving the energy in the crowd as fans of each team sang songs and murmured chants to show their allegiance. There were more England fans in the pub, but by no means were the Irish not well represented. Tom knew several of the pub's patrons; they were good humored blokes, but they could take their "shoving matches" a bit too far. At one point in the game, an Ireland fan "playfully pushed" an England fan, which earned a "playful shove" back. The two were pulled apart before the shoving turned into punching, and to ease the tension, another round was bought for the both of them. Despite the near fight, Sybil was grinning, cheering and groaning alongside her fellow Englishmen, giving him the side-eye whenever he cheered for something Ireland did. "Wearing your lucky shirt, I see," she commented at one point.

"You have to wear this shirt when Ireland plays!" he answered over the crowd. "It's a cardinal rule!"

"Is it?" she asked, though it was done playfully so. "And do you always win when you wear it?"

Oh if only…

"It's not that lucky," he sighed.

Sybil laughed. "Perhaps we can make a wager?"

He grinned at that. "Loser buys dinner?"

She laughed and blushed, and Tom felt that wonderful warmth wash over him. He leaned a little closer, and once again, their hands seemed to have found each other.

The game continued, and it was getting very tense. Both England and Ireland were playing hard, and the scores were about even. At one point, Sybil got so excited that she slammed her hand down on the table so hard, it shook her drink, causing it to splash all over herself. "OH!" But she laughed it off, before sheepishly trying to wipe herself dry with a few napkins.

He tried not to stare, but Tom did notice that it had made the white of her shirt a little transparent, and so for her propriety, he removed his rugby shirt and handed it to her. "Here, this will cover it."

Sybil gasped and looked up at him in surprise. "Oh, but it's your—"

"It's alright, I don't mind," he assured, although he prayed the thing didn't stink. She blushed and accepted the shirt, slipping it on over her head, laughing as the sleeves dwarfed her arms, before rolling them up so her hands could be free. Tom couldn't help but smile at the sight, finding her absolutely adorable.

Still, despite the colors she now wore, she continued to root for England, who had scored again and looked poised to win. He remembered the cardinal rules his father had told him, especially the so-called most "important" rule—never allow a girl to wear your shirt (especially an English girl). Still…despite the fact that his favorite team was about to lose, Tom didn't feel so bad.

"I don't know about you…" she laughed as the English fans erupted in cheers. "But I found this shirt to be extremely lucky!" She gave a little poke of her tongue, and squealed as he playfully growled at her, looking like he was ready to lunge. Indeed, despite the outcome, Tom couldn't say he was completely disappointed.

However, not everyone felt the same way.

"Oy!" someone growled nearby, pointing an accusing finger in Sybil's face. "You don't deserve to wear our colors! Keep your mouth shut, you English cun—"

"Fuck off," Tom snarled, stepping in front of Sybil and shielding her from the drunk Irish fan. "And apologize to my girlfriend."

The drunk looked at him, as if measuring him up to see if he could take Tom on, despite his inebriated state. However, before anything physical could happen, Sybil's hand wrapped around his forearm and she gently tugged him back. "Let's just go," she murmured, urging him to follow. "Please?"

The bastard should be apologizing to her, but Tom couldn't deny the plea in her voice, and he didn't want their date to end with him throwing punches and possibly needing to get stitches from a pub fight. So with a deep breath, he backed away from the drunk, who was muttering incoherent curses at his retreating figure, turning and wrapping a protective arm around Sybil's shoulders and didn't let go of her until they were outside and several yards away. And only then, did he lower his arm reluctantly. "Sorry about that," he sighed. Had the evening been ruined?

"It's alright," she murmured, nibbling her bottom lip. "But thank you for not…taking it further."

He nodded, though he couldn't deny he wanted to punch the bastard for evening thinking about calling her that word. But despite that moment (and Ireland's loss) it had been a good date—one of the best, actually—and he didn't want that to be its defining moment. "Hey, so I guess you were right, the best person did win," he teased, hoping to make things light-hearted once again.

She smiled at this, but shook her head. "No…the best woman won," she teased, poking her tongue out at him again. Oh God, how delicious her tongue looked; how he longed to feel it against his own while he kissed her…

"Soooo…" she interrupted his daydream and he forced his gaze away from her lips back to her eyes. "I'm your…girlfriend?"

He paled suddenly. "I…I um…" he swallowed. "I…I didn't mean to overstep anything, I just—"

"You don't have to apologize," she assured him, her hand reaching down and finding his, her fingers entwining with his own once more. "In fact…I rather liked it."

Was this happening? He let out a long, shaky breath and told his heart to stay calm. "Me too," he admitted, squeezing her hand in back. The urge, the desire to kiss her was growing more and more, but he didn't want to overstep so many boundaries all at once, so without letting go of her hand, he took a step back and smiled down at her. "Well, milady…seeing as how 'the best woman' won, I am a man of my word, and will buy you dinner—"

"Can it be anywhere?"

Tom paused for a moment, thinking about this before answering. Sybil knew he wasn't rich. Even though things were going fairly well at the news source he now wrote for, he didn't have the sort of salary to just drop fifty quid on a single meal. However, he trusted her and again, not wanting to ruin the night after such a good day, he smiled and nodded his head. "Anywhere milady wishes," he teased, giving her an over-dramatic bow.

Sybil wasn't laughing, though. Tom lifted his head, wondering what was wrong, what he had said or done, but no sooner had he straightened himself, he felt arms (in his sleeves) wrap around his neck, and she was pulling his body close to hers, her lips only a breath away from his. "Crawley House," she whispered. "Come back to my place—we can order take away and in the morning have breakfast in bed." And without another word, she leaned up and pressed her lips against his own in what he would recall till the day he died as his first real kiss.

The next day…

Tom Branson had never slept so well. He woke up to the warm feeling of the sun shining down on his face, the soft feel of Egyptian cotton against his skin, and the sound of…The Corrs?

He opened his eyes, sat up, and looked around him…and quickly realized this was not his place.

Sybil…

This was Sybil's place! Or her family's townhouse, to be precise. He looked over at the vacant spot on the bed next to him, the outline of her body still visible on the sheets. He flopped back, his hands covering his face as the memories from the previous evening all began to return…

She had kissed him. She had initiated the kiss, pressing her beautiful body against his own, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair on the back of his head. And his own arms did not waste another moment; they were around her too, pulling her closer, one hand sliding up and down her spine, while the other cradled the back of her head, his own fingers becoming lost amongst her wild, brown curls. The kiss deepened, and he groaned as he tasted her tongue at last, his own sliding along hers, before welcoming it into his mouth, his to hers. The kiss continued to grow and deepen and become more and more passionate. They needed to get to her family's place NOW.

Within seconds, he had managed to hail a cab, and they tried to keep their hands from wandering too much, as they drove to Eaton Square where the house resided. Under any other circumstances, Tom might have taken a moment to look at the posh residence he was about to enter, but right now, all he could focus on was this gorgeous woman who was tugging on his wrist to hurry up and follow her inside the house, his own hands gripping her hips, his body molding against her back, his mouth kissing her shoulder, before moving up and running his tongue across her pulse point, gently sucking on the flesh and feeling her tremble against him.

"Sybil…" he groaned into her ear before gently nipping the lobe, the both of them moaning in satisfaction as the key finally unlocked the door and they nearly tumbled inside.

"Don't worry," she gasped, turning around so she could properly kiss him again. "The staff—mmmMMmmm—are all—MmmMMmmmm—off this weekend—oohhhh that feels nice, Tom," she whimpered as he once again began to kiss and suck at her neck.

"Only nice?" he growled against her skin, though hearing her pleasured moans certainly brought a smile to his face.

She whimpered, and began to tug on his hands. "This way," she urged, pulling him after her, up a grand staircase, that once again, under perhaps other circumstances, he would have truly paused to take in. But he was too entranced by the movements of her bum, and when they reached the sixth step, he realized they weren't going fast enough, so without a second thought, he scooped her up, to which she squealed, before laughing, and he took the stairs, two at a time, following her instructions once he reached the top about where to go next.

"The door on the right, just kick it open!" she told him, laughing as it banged rather loudly against the wall when he did as she said.

"Oops," he apologized, though he too was chuckling, before depositing her over onto the bed, her arms tugging on his shoulders, insisting that he come down and join her, even before he had managed to kick his shoes off.

"Sy—MmmmmMmm—Syb—MmMmm—Sybil!" he finally managed to say as her lips moved down his own chin and neck. Her sweet small fingers were already tugging at the ends of his shirt, pulling it loose from the waistband of his jeans, and he groaned as he felt her nails score his back. "Oh God, love…love…" his hands framed her face, and he looked deeply into her eyes. "Are you sure about this?" he asked. While the both of them had had several drinks, he wouldn't say he as feeling drunk, and he didn't think she was either, but at the same time, he didn't want her to regret this come morning, and blame it all on poor decision making while in an inebriated state of mind.

She looked back at him, her hands now moving around to the front of his chest. He was sitting up, his fingers tenderly caressing her cheeks as he looked into her eyes. There was a part of him that desperately, DESPERATELY wanted this to continue, to give into the passion that had suddenly flared between them. But at the same time, he didn't want this to be some one-night stand, some random encounter that he would look back on and wonder "what could have been". As mad as it sounded, especially since they had only seen each other twice, and spoken on a few occasions over the phone or in texts and emails in between, Tom knew, deep in his heart…he was falling for Lady Sybil Crawley. And falling hard.

"Tom…" she murmured his name, her small hands coming up to caress his own cheeks, and he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, relishing the softness of her skin. "I want this, I do," she whispered, leaning up and kissing him lightly, but sweetly at the corner of his mouth. "I promise you, I'm not drunk, I'm fully aware of what I'm doing—of what we're doing—and I meant what I said earlier," she giggled, and he looked back at her, a little confused. "I want to wake up tomorrow…and have breakfast in bed with you. So you see? I have no intentions of tossing you out after one shag," she giggled.

One shag. Oh God, if he could have his way, it only be one of many.

"Do you…?"

He realized what she was asking, and he nodded his head, reaching into his jeans pocket and pulling out his wallet. As soon as he removed the condom, Sybil swiped it and grinned back at him like the cat who had caught the canary. "Do you have more?"

Tom thought his eyes would bulge out of his head by her question. He looked into his wallet and frowned. He did have another, but it was his last one. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself? Maybe he shouldn't assume that they would—

"Don't worry, I came prepared," she blushed, and this time, Tom's eyes did nearly bulge out of his head as she opened the shoulder which she had been carrying when she met him at the pub…and right there inside was a large box of Trojans.

"Fuck me," Tom swore, his eyes wide with happy shock. Had she really gotten that for them?

"Oh, I intend to," she giggled, though he could see vulnerability on her face at the revelation. He knew some bastards would slut-shame a woman for daring to be prepared with protection. For himself, he actually felt rather humbled. Had she really been thinking about him the same way he had been thinking about her?

"I just thought…maybe…and…well, looks like this shirt truly is luckier than I thought," she confessed with a blush, before closing the bag. "I know that sounds presumptive—MMMMM!" He cut off her words, his hands bringing her face to his, his mouth desperate and kissing her deeply, his tongue making love to her mouth and she moaned and whimpered and clutched at him, before gripping the ends of his shirt and tugging it up, before tossing it onto the floor.

Likewise, Tom did the same with her shirt (his shirt), and pulled it up over her head, along with her stained shirt beneath it, the both of them laughing as her unruly hair momentarily stopped them. "I swear, there are days when I think I should just shave it off," she laughed, when she was finally free of both shirts.

Tom gazed at her beautiful body, and the way her wild hair flowed across her shoulders. "I like that it refuses to be tamed," he confessed, reaching forward to run his fingers through the curls. "Rebellious…like you."

Sybil blushed, but smiled and then without warning, reached around her back and unclipped her bra, tossing it aside to join the growing pile of their clothing. They didn't waste much time after that in removing the rest of their clothes. Soon, the pair of them were completely naked, lying on the bed and drinking in the sight of the other.

She was voluptuous and curvy and mouthwatering. Even though he was desperate to touch her, a part of him was reluctant, simply because he afraid this was all a wonderful dream and he would wake up too soon. So Sybil took his hand, kissed each of his fingers, before sliding closer and pressing her body against his, her breasts, large and round, flattening against his chest, gasping as the hairs on his chest tickled her nipples. Encouraged by her move, Tom ran his fingers up and down the sides of her body, moaning at the softness of her skin. From the curve of her waist to her hip, down along her thigh, all the way to her calf, before his hand slid back up, running over her arm, to her shoulder, and finally coming around the front, pausing until one of her breasts filled his hand and he gave it a tender squeeze.

"Oooohhh," Sybil moaned, as Tom repeated the action on the other side of her body. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled his head down to kiss her, which he happily did. Eventually the kiss grew beyond her lips, and his own began to move along her jaw, down her neck, across her collarbone, down ribs, pausing to pay homage to her breasts and suckle her nipples, groaning at the delicious whimpers that were escaping her throat as he pleasured her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, gasping as his teeth nipped the tender flesh, before descending again, kissing down the curves of her breasts to her stomach, further and further down, feeling her body tremble with anticipation as he got closer and closer to his intended goal. After several teasing kisses at her hips and thighs, he finally relieved the ache that had been building in her belly (and his as well) as he dipped his head to kiss and make love to her with his lips and tongue.

"Ooooohhhh Tom!" Sybil gasped, her body arching off the bed, as he drew her legs up and placed them over his shoulders so he could get closer, spending extra attention on her clit, licking and sucking and flicking his tongue across it, while first one finger…and then two…began to gently move and thrust inside her, groaning at how wonderfully tight her body was.

She was panting, gasping, whimpering his name, telling him not to stop, as well as telling him how good he was making her feel. He wanted to make her come so badly, but was surprised when he felt her tugging on his, begging him to come up, begging for him to kiss her…and fill her with his cock.

Her hot, lustful words nearly caused him to spend right then and there.

"I just want our first time to be with you inside me, please?" she blushed, but God, how could he deny her such a pretty request?

She insisted on putting the condom on herself, though he had a feeling (especially after the rather devilish grin that she wore) that it was a wonderful excuse for her to touch and run her fingers over his length, which was growing harder by the second. "Don't tease love," he gasped, especially as he felt her fingers slide down and brush over his balls. "I'm barely hanging on as it is!"

She kissed him then and giggled as she could still taste a little of herself on his lips. "Mmmmm…I can't wait to taste you too," she whispered, and Tom swore under his breath, moving in quickly between her legs, needing so badly to be inside her. With his hand on her thigh, he guided and encouraged her to wrap her legs around him, which she all too happily did. And just like slipping on a soft, warm, velvety glove…Tom slipped inside her, both of them gasping as her body tightly embraced his, drawing him deeper.

"Oh God, Sybil…" he groaned, gasping and desperately trying to hold onto as much control as possible. "God…love, you…you feel amazing…"

"You too," she moaned, biting her lip as she trembled from the pleasure of their bodies being joined at last. She began to move beneath him, desperate for him to do the same, so he started to thrust, slowly at first (mainly because he wanted this to last and he was already teetering on the edge the moment he entered her), but soon they found their pace, and their movements quickened.

Tom held her tightly, and leaned back slightly until he was practically sitting up. His arms were around Sybil, one wrapped around her waist, the hand splayed over her rump, pulling her closer with each thrust, while his other arm ran along her spine, his hand up in her hair, tangling it as he kissed her fiercely, moaning against her mouth, their tongues mimicking their bodies, her own arms wrapped around his shoulders, one hand in his hair, the other digging her nails into his back, causing him to hiss, but not out of pain.

"Don't stop…please…so close…so close…" she panted, their movements erratic as they ground against each other.

"Come for me, love, come for me, please…" he groaned, pressing her back against the mattress, moving his hips in such a way, that it caused the base of his cock to press against her clit. Her eyes went wide at the sensation, and she threw her head back, screaming, and he continued the motion, thrusting hard and fast and deep, one, two, three, four—and then he felt her trembling, felt her body grip and hold his, as her orgasm took hold of her, and spread through him, his own coming mere seconds later after two more hard thrusts. "SYBIL!" he shouted, before gasping and letting his head fall against her shoulder, his face buried in her hair.

Her legs and arms kept him locked against her, and for a long time, they didn't move from that position, just held each other and panted as the pleasured bliss from their love making settled over them. He tenderly kissed her shoulder, her neck, the side of her face, and smiling against her skin as he felt her do the same. Carefully, their bodies still joined, he rolled them onto their sides, and with blushing smiles, they gazed into each other's eyes, their lips meeting again, exchanging more kisses and whispered words of affection.

Yes, Tom was falling fast and falling hard for this woman. And before the night was over, the two of them had made love four more times, before in utter exhaustion, they curled up in each other's arms, the blankets wrapped around them, and settled in for a long, well-deserved slumber.

…Tom sighed, gazing up at the ceiling and smiling as all those memories played before his eyes again. He didn't care if it sounded cliché; last night had been the best night of his life. But the morning after was only lacking because his beautiful companion was nowhere to be seen. However, the smell of bacon wafting up the stairs and into the room was enough to give Tom an idea as to where he could find her.

With somewhat stiff legs, he rolled out of bed, grabbed his boxers and pulled them, laughing and blushing as he looked at the state of disarray across the floor, their clothes from last night strewn all about. However, he did notice that his rugby shirt was missing…and just like Sybil, he had a pretty good idea as to where it had gone.

He wasn't wrong about hearing The Corrs, earlier. The voices from the Irish pop group singing "Breathless", grew louder as he followed it to what he assumed was the kitchen. In the light of the new day, he stared at the vastness of the London townhouse, shaking his head as he imagined how many times the house he grew up in could fit into this place.

"Go on, go on, make me breakfast!"

Tom froze as he heard the distinct sound of Sybil's husky voice sing out, and like the siren's call, he followed it until he came around the corner, his eyes widening and a smile spreading as he took in the sight of Sybil, her back to him…dancing around the kitchen to the music, holding a spatula as if it were a microphone and tossing her hair from side to side, as she shimmied in her bare feet…while wearing his rugby shirt.

"Tempt me, tease me!
Until I can't deny this loving feeling!
Make me long for your kiss!"

She paused in her singing to use her microphone spatula to flip the bacon in the frying pan, before moving over to check on whatever else she was cooking. A posh earl's daughter who not only shares your political leanings, but also knows how to cook…

He frowned when the smell of something…burning…filled his nostrils.

"Go on, go on…make me breakfast!" she sang out again—and then seemed to realize, herself, that something was burning, and gasped, "oh bollocks!" before dropping the spatula and moving to the toaster, hitting the button and watching in horror as two charred pieces of what was once bread, popped out.

Well…almost can cook.

"Need some help?"

Sybil gasped and whirled around. "Tom! You're up?" she blushed immediately and he couldn't deny he blushed as well, but smiled and folded his arms over his chest.

"Aye, I'm…awake," he confirmed, his eyes sparkling with humor as he remembered just how far that lovely blush of hers traveled…

"Did I wake you? I was going to surprise you with breakfast—"

"Trust me, love, you've surprised me," he chuckled, coming over to where she stood. "And I'd much rather join you in the kitchen, than sit up there by myself."

She giggled and blushed again, her eyes lowering, and then gasping as she realized the bacon was starting to burn. Tom was quick though, taking the spatula himself and quickly flipping it over, then moving it onto the plate. "It's alright," he grinned, seeing the mortified look on her face. "I actually prefer my bacon extra crispy."

She looked up at him, and then blushed and laughed before shaking her head. "Liar," she giggled. "Although flattery…may get you everywhere, Mr. Branson," she flirted, moving closer and wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Is that so, Lady Sybil?" he grinned back, his hand moving behind her and quickly turning the heat on low so as not to burn the beans that were cooking in nearby pot. "Well…maybe after breakfast we can…have a different sort of…treat in bed?"

Sybil laughed and leaned up on her toes to kiss him, moaning into his mouth, and clearly prepared to forgo everything she had been cooking, had Tom not lifted his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow, before murmuring something about making them some fresh toast for her beans.

"Oh!" she turned then to check on the pot, a sigh of relief escaping as she noticed they hadn't burnt under her neglectful eye. "I…I'm trying," she sighed. "Daisy, one of my flat mates in York, she's the cook in our group—she's given me some pointers, but…" she sighed and shook her head.

"With the exception of the charred toast, everything else looks good," he assured her. Including yourself, he thought, taking in the sight of her again in his shirt.

The new toast popped, taking him out of his musings, and Sybil had already taken the eggs she had scrambled, plus the slightly burnt bacon, and baked beans onto a plate, before adding their toast. "Ready?" she grinned, holding out his plate, as well as mug of tea for him. She clearly was serious about "having breakfast in bed", which only caused Tom to grin.

"For you? Always," he murmured, not caring if the words sounded romantically cheesy, he meant them.

She blushed and took her own plate, as well as her own mug, and led the way back upstairs, humming the song she had been singing under her breath.

"I liked your variation," he added, in reference to her change of "breathless" to "breakfast".

Sybil laughed. "When I first heard that song, I really thought that was what they were saying!" she defended.

Tom chuckled, admiring her rump as it moved beneath his shirt while they walked up the stairs. "So you're a Corrs fan, then?"

She looked over her shoulder and winked at him. "I'm a fan of all things Irish."

If his hands weren't full, he'd be tempted to give her bum a little swat. "I'm very touched," he flirted back.

"Mmmm…yes you were, and yes, you will be," she purred.

Christ almighty, was she trying to get them to skip breakfast altogether?

"Well…I can't deny that that shirt looks good on you," he murmured, smiling as he saw her bashfully blush at his compliment. Indeed, no piece of lingerie could be sexier than the sight of a woman wearing a man's shirt as she was.

Her eyes sparkled. "Well…that is something girlfriends do, isn't it? Wear their boyfriend's shirts?"

He swallowed as he remembered what he had called her last night…and how she had liked it. "Aye," he agreed, before adding, "And that green looks much better than that silly red and white you were wearing yesterday," he teased.

She gasped and gave him a look, before poking her tongue out. "Just so long as you remember who won yesterday."

He shook his head, chuckling at her cheek, and then thoughtfully pausing for saying, "I think…we both won, in our own way, don't you?"

She blushed and smiled and nodded her head, stopping in the doorway of their room to lean up and brush her lips against his. "Absolutely," she murmured, before stepping away. "I told you that shirt was lucky!"

His father's voice could be heard in the back of his head. "Never…under ANY circumstance…are you to allow a girl to wear it!" And yet here he had allowed her; more than that, he had given her his shirt last night, helped her put it on (and then take it off) and now she was standing before him again, wearing that shirt and nothing else…and for the first time ever, Tom honestly couldn't care less that his favorite team, the IRFU, had lost last night; lost to ENGLAND of all teams! And no doubt his father and any other self-respecting Irish rugby fan would accuse him of being responsible because he had given his shirt, his sacred Irish rugby shirt, to an Englishwoman (who also happened to be a peer of the realm!)

And who he was falling in love with.

Indeed…Sybil was right. The shirt, in its own way, was very, very lucky. Just not the sort of luck he had ever imagined.

It was better.

...to be continued?