Ho! Ho! Ho! Here is my belated Secret Santa fic for magfreak (it's still Jan. 6 where you are, so technically it's still "Christmas", at least for a few more minutes) ;oP

I'm afraid this will be two-three chapters, but I'm already hard at work on the next piece! So hopefully I can get those done within the week! BUT ANYWAY, let me explain her prompt:

Tom was a hallboy at the house and Sybil used to play with him, but his family moves back to Ireland. Years later, he is a journalist and is working for the York paper. He comes back to the house because he has been assigned to write a profile about Robert. After their interview in the library, Cora invites him to stay for luncheon. He and Sybil recognize each other but neither says anything. Later, she catches him alone as he's leaving. They catch up and maybe more?

I changed a few tiny things (he works for a London newspaper, as opposed to a York one) and you'll soon see the story he's come to write about, but...anyway, I do hope you like it and I hope it justifies at least a little bit of your amazing prompt! :oD

Forget-Me-Not
by The Yankee Countess

January, 1919
London

"Branson!"

Tom lifted his head at the sound of his editor's voice. George Conway was every bit the stereotypical picture of a newspaper editor—large frame, long sideburns that were attached to his beard and moustache, and the stub of a cigar clenched tightly between his teeth. He also wore a constant expression of stern impatience, so Tom knew that when the man called you, you didn't keep him waiting.

"Sir?" he responded, rising quickly from his desk and hurrying over to Mr. Conway's office. His editor motioned for him to shut the door and take a seat, which Tom did, although he couldn't deny that he felt a prickle of unease creep down his spine. Surely he wasn't being sacked?

"I'll get right to it," Conway muttered, pulling his own chair up to the desk, his rotund belly brushing the edge. Tom swallowed and leaned forward. "The story you're currently working on…the one involving the Russian Civil War—"

"It's nearly finished," Tom interrupted, thinking perhaps that this was why Conway had called him in. "I just need to conduct a few more interviews—so many newspapers are only writing about the 'Reds' and 'Whites', but I think it's important to talk to those other people, like the Jewish refugees who—"

"Table it," Conway muttered, waving his hand dismissively.

Tom blinked. "Table it?" he repeated.

"At least for the time being," Conway muttered, spitting out his cigar stub and replacing it with a new, unlit one. "That story, much like the war, isn't going anywhere; you can come back to it later."

Tom was so confused. So…he hadn't been called in to discuss his story? "Sir, forgive me, I don't understand—"

"I need you to head up to Yorkshire," Conway explained, pausing to take several puffs on his newly lit cigar.

Tom's confusion didn't lessen. "Yorkshire?"

Conway nodded. "Originally Nicholson was going to cover the story, but yesterday he started hacking and coughing and woke up with a fever, and is certain he has that bloody flu everyone is going on about," the man muttered, clearly finding this bit of news more annoying than a question of concern for his journalist. "So I need someone else to take his place and travel to Yorkshire, and seeing as how your story isn't on a particular deadline, you're the man I need to go."

Tom frowned. He hated to have his writing interrupted, especially when he felt he was getting somewhere with it, but this wasn't the first time his editor had asked him and other journalists to set aside something they were doing to cover something else. But what in God's name was so important up in Yorkshire? "What's the story?"

Conway seemed to squirm slightly at the question, and Tom knew that wasn't a good sign. "There's an estate up there," he began, avoiding Tom's eyes. "They transformed themselves into a convalescent home during the War—"

"It's a 'puff piece'," Tom muttered under his breath. He hated writing "puff pieces".

Conway narrowed his eyes and gave Tom a challenging look. "Call it what you want, but you ARE going to travel up there and cover this story!" he growled.

Tom didn't argue the fact, however he didn't bother to hide his disdain at the thought of leaving what he felt was a good, important story about the Russian Civil War and its effects on the common people and how those very people, if they were lucky, were escaping the war torn landscape…to write some kind of "puff piece" about oh so generous aristocrats who decided to open up their vast estate for high-ranking British officers so they could feel good about themselves and their so-called "patriotic charity".

"They're hardly the first estate to transform into such a place," he muttered to his editor. "What makes them worthy to appear in print?"

"Unlike those other estates, this one is still going," Conway explained, easing back into his chair. "The War officially came to an end last November, and apparently a great many places felt that when the clock struck 11, that meant they could close their doors and return to what they were before the War, regardless of how many men still needed time to convalesce—but not this place," he emphasized.

Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Good for them," he muttered, still not feeling any warmth to the "magnanimous" residents of mysterious Yorkshire estate.

Conway sighed and set his cigar down on the overflowing ashtray. "Alright, I know you don't want to do this—even if you hadn't said anything, your posture has made that abundantly clear," he grumbled. "But as I said, you're the only journalist I have right now whose back isn't up against a deadline, and I need this story! It's a New Year and these are the sorts of stories people want to read. Mock them all you like, call them 'puff pieces' and sneer at them, but this country just got out of a long, bloody war—"

No one's fault but their own, Tom thought to himself.

"—And people want to read something positive," Conway finished. "All the other newspapers are writing stories like this, and I refuse to be the only one left behind."

Tom was tempted to argue the matter. Tempted to mutter something about "who cares what the other newspapers are doing" or "better to keep people's eyes open to the injustices of the world, rather than hide behind 'feel-good patriotism'", but he didn't. He knew it was a moot point, and he knew that his editor wasn't asking him to write this story; he was telling him.

"Fine," he sighed with resignation. At least if he wrote it, he could perhaps slip in some of his own personal political opinions into the piece. "When do you need me to go?"

Conway glanced at the clock over Tom's head. "There's a train leaving Victoria Station in the next hour—I suggest you hurry back to your flat and collect a suitcase; you'll be staying a few days."

Tom's eyes were practically bulging. "A few days!?"

"Two at most," Conway explained with a dismissive gesture, before picking up his cigar and placing back between his teeth. He opened a drawer in his desk and tossed a large envelope towards Tom. "There's all the information you need, plus the name of the inn Nicholson was going to stay, had he gone. The reservation is still under his name, and as far as the estate is concerned, they still think he's coming up to write the story, so you'll have to set them straight once you arrive."

Tom could feel a headache coming on. He had so much to do and less than an hour to do it all. While he didn't wish any real harm on Nicholson, he couldn't help but curse the man's name for putting him in this situation.

"Branson!"

Tom had been moving towards the door, but stopped at Conway's voice. His editor pointed at the envelope which he had given to Tom, which was still lying atop the desk. "You'll be needing that."

Tom mutely nodded his head and retrieved the envelope. Conway didn't say anything further, didn't even wish him "good luck", just went right back to whatever he was working on before he had called Tom into his office.

"Everything alright?" someone asked, and Tom turned his head to see Peter, his good friend and the only other Irishman at the paper, looking at him with concern. "You didn't get the sack, did you?"

"No," Tom reassured, although there was a tiny part of him that wondered if that would be so bad, compared to the fate that awaited him. "I have to travel north; cover a story involving some estate that turned itself into a convalescent home."

Peter's eyebrows lifted in a quizzical manner at this. "What's the estate?"

"I—bloody hell, I never asked," he realized, and looked down at the envelope in his hands. He opened it to see where on earth he was traveling…and he swore his heart skipped a beat at the two simple words printed at the top of a page: Downton Abbey.

April, 1906
Yorkshire

The boy stared up at sky, his eyes growing wider with every hoof beat. He wasn't even aware that the horses had stopped, until a gruff Yorkshire accent filled his ears and muttered, "We're here, lad—get going!"

The boy swallowed and mutely nodded his head to the farmer's order, but he didn't lower his eyes. What had caught his attention had nothing to do with the sky, but everything to do with what was touching the sky, or so it seemed.

"Oi!"

The boy was jerked from his thoughts by the Yorkshireman's bark. He quickly scrambled down from the farmer's cart and grabbed his meager satchel. No sooner had his feet touched the ground, the farmer had already cracked the whip and his horses were quickly moving up the lane, away from the towering mountain of brick and glass.

The boy paid the farmer no heed, he returned his gaze to the monolith before him. His entire journey here, he had been feeling anxious and uncertain. He thought he might even feel frightened, especially at this moment. But now, as he faced this place that was like nothing he had ever visited or seen before…he found that he wasn't afraid. Determined…that was the emotion that was ruling him right now. Determined to prove himself; prove to everyone that he was so much more than a "position".

With his jaw set and his eyes focused, he let out a gust of air from his nostrils, much like a bull preparing to charge, and took very determined steps down the lane.

The lane circled the front of the house, but he knew better than to walk up those long, massive steps to the large, wooden door. That was something he had been taught long before he had made this journey—which doors were "proper" for someone like himself, and someone like them, to enter. The thought caused him to scowl at the door, but he didn't let his eyes linger, he continued his determined march, passed the front of the house towards its side—

"UMPH!"

The boy suddenly found himself flat on his back, wincing at the feel of gravel digging into his skin. The air had been momentary knocked from his lungs and he was coughing and gasping as he tried to sit up. It wasn't a punch, but something—or someone—had certainly slammed into him. In fact, he realized then that he wasn't the only one lying on the ground.

He was frowning at first, and despite the pain he had felt from being knocked to the ground, his hands had formed fists and he was determined to take on whoever had run into him, but his fists quickly unclenched, and his frown quickly faded as he realized that the person responsible for his current state was also groaning in pain…and wearing a dress.

The girl was right next to him; in fact she had momentarily been on top of him, but had rolled off to the side not long after the two of them had made impact with the gravel beneath. While he was leaning up by his elbows, she was sitting up completely, and hissing as her fingers brushed over one of her knees. Even at his young age, he knew it wasn't proper to look, let alone stare, at a woman's—or in this case, girl's—legs, but his eyes were drawn to her fingers, which were wet and red as they brushed over the surface of her knee.

Her stockings were shredded to pieces, especially over her knees, and while she hadn't cried out, he could see the glisten of tears just under her eyes, and the slight wobble of her bottom lip.

He didn't even pause to second guess himself. "Here," he spoke at last, handing her an old handkerchief from his back pocket. The girl snapped her head up then, looking surprised, as if she hadn't realized someone else was there. He was startled by her wide, blue eyes, and his tongue felt heavy and the effort to form words seemed impossible. She blinked and returned his stare, before finally glancing down at the offered handkerchief…and tentatively reaching forward to take it.

"Thank you," she politely murmured, her accent unlike any he was used to hearing. If her dress and stockings hadn't been clue enough, her voice confirmed it; she was one of them.

"What's your name?"

His eyes snapped back to hers and he blinked as his mind tried to make sense of her question. Had she just asked…? Didn't she know who…or rather, what, he was…?

"I'm Sybil," the girl introduced, and then much to his surprise…she smiled.

A sincere, genuine smile; the sort you would give someone who was your friend.

"…Tom," he finally managed to say, surprising himself when he realized he had answered her initial question. They weren't supposed to be doing this…talking like this…and yet he couldn't stop himself from saying, "I'm Tom."

Her smile grew, and Tom found himself swallowing down a strange lump. "It's nice to meet you, Tom," she said with a giggle. It wasn't a teasing giggle. Just like her smile, it too was kind and genuine.

"Do you shake hands?" she asked him, and before he could answer, or even realize what was happening, she reached forward and grasped the hand that had offered her the handkerchief and gave it a firm squeeze. "Grandmama says everybody shakes hands in New York." He had no idea what she was talking about, but it didn't matter. He simply looked down at their clasped hands and found himself returning the squeeze.

This caused her to giggle again, which actually brought a smile to his own lips, a smile that only grew as he noticed how her cheeks were turning a bright shade of pink.

However, whatever strange revelry they had found themselves in, quickly shattered at the sound of a woman's gasp and cry.

"LADY SYBIL! What on earth has happened!? How…?"

The woman's voice faded as she looked past her charge to Tom, and Tom found himself quickly scrambling to his feet, his cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"Tommy!?" the woman screeched, her Irish accent thick and familiar.

Tom lowered his eyes and kept them lowered as he mumbled back, "Auntie Aoife."

"Auntie?" he heard the girl question, but she was quickly shushed by his aunt.

"What happened!?" his aunt demanded, but she didn't bother to wait for an answer. She immediately crouched down before them, gasping at the sight of girl's bloody knees, scolding her for ruining her stockings, and then his aunt turned to him and began reprimanding him for his own disheveled appearance ("you haven't even started yet! Your first day, Tommy! Your mother is counting on me; the whole family is depending on you! And you aren't fit to be seen by anyone!")

"Please don't shout at him, Nanny!" he heard the girl plead, causing him to lift his head in surprise. She was…defending him? "It's my fault," she continued, stepping in front of him, as if to shield him. "I was running and I wasn't paying attention—"

"Lady Sybil," his aunt groaned, in a tone that revealed this wasn't the first time such excuses (or explanations) had been offered. "You might be young, but you are STILL a Lady, and Ladies DO NOT—"

"Run," the girl mumbled, looking down at the ground herself. Aye, his Auntie Aoife was not a woman to cross, be you Irish and working class, or posh and English.

However, the girl's defense of him did not relinquish. "I will explain that it was my fault to anyone who needs to know—"

"Alright, alright, calm yourself, child," his aunt sighed, and Tom glanced up at her from the corner of his eye and felt the corner of his mouth lift at the frustrated, but endearing smile he saw her give the girl. He quickly looked away when she turned her focus back on him once again. "Tommy—you need to wash before you meet with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. I'll take you to the kitchens where you can clean up while I see to Lady Sybil."

Tom silently nodded his head and obediently followed his aunt as she took Sybil's hand and led them to the servant's entrance, the very door he had looking to enter before the girl—Lady Sybil—slammed into him.

The girl—Lady Sybil—glanced over her shoulder at him several times, as if making sure he was still there and no one had come to snatch him away. He tried not to look at her, knowing that was how it was supposed to be: don't look, don't speak, unless spoken to, and even then, keep it minimal. His aunt had reminded him by the use of the girl's "true" name ("Lady Sybil") how far above him she truly was.

…And yet despite that, and despite that fact that he had only just met her…there was something…he couldn't explain it, and when he thought about it, it caused his face to burn, but there was something that made it feel perfectly…natural…to look, and speak, and even laugh and smile, with young Lady Sybil.

"Sink is just through there," his aunt informed him, once they passed through the servant's entrance. "Mind Mrs. Patmore and her staff; stay out of their way and once you've cleaned up, sit right here and don't move!" she commanded, pointing at a chair just by the door. She didn't wait for him to nod or reply, she simply turned and led Lady Sybil away, although Lady Sybil did turn once again to look at him, and mouthed back, "shout for me if you need help!"

He watched her go, tugged away by his aunt's insistent grip. A part of him was tempted to cry out "Help!" just to see what would happen. He didn't, of course, because his aunt was right—his mother and siblings were depending on him, even now at the age of eleven. His older siblings had done their share for the family and now it was his turn. And after receiving a letter from his aunt, telling his mother about the need for hall boys at the estate where she had been hired to work as a nanny for the Earl of Grantham's daughters, his mother had told him to pack his belongings and get ready to travel across the sea to Yorkshire. He hadn't wanted to leave Ireland; he missed his family and home very much. But he knew he had a responsibility to his family, and knew that based on his aunt's letters to her sister, his mother, the pay would be good, even for a hall boy.

Still, had she meant it, her defense of him? If the butler or housekeeper or even Lord Grantham himself began to reprimand him, would she still coming running to his side if he called out?

Help, he silently thought. Don't go…please stay with me…

Don't go…

Stay, please…

Come back…

Come back…

Please…

"Tickets!"

Tom's eyes snapped open as the train car jerked forward. He was disorientated and confused, looking around the compartment and trying to recall where he was.

"Tickets!" the stern voice repeated.

He groggily nodded his head and retrieved the ticket from his inside coat pocket, handing it to the agent who snipped it, before returning it to Tom and going about his way.

Tom sighed and let his head rest against the glass of his window, looking out at the passing countryside. Were they in Yorkshire yet? How much further to Downton? And then the question he had been asking himself over and over, ever since he had learned where he was going, resurfaced: Will there be anyone there who will recognize me?

It was doubtful. He was seventeen when he left Downton Abbey, in the spring of 1912, and so much had happened since then. No, he doubted anyone would recognize or remember him, even the staff (assuming the same people were still there). And she certainly wouldn't remember him…not that it mattered, of course. She was…what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two? Most likely she had married, and was living in some grand castle of her own. And making some lucky bastard blissfully happy…

Tom sighed and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut in an effort to force unwanted thoughts and distant memories at that: a distance. That was the past, and nothing could be changed about it, which was why he always tried to focus on the present and future, rather than dwell in "what might/could have been…"

He was no longer a hall boy; he was no longer in the employ of Robert Crawley. He was a journalist now, a good journalist, proud of what he wrote…

But he would always be a working-class Irishman, just as she would always be an English Lady. And no matter what else he changed about his life, that fact would always remain true.

When he stepped off the train, Tom was struck by a strange realization that everything seemed familiar…and yet nothing looked the same. This wasn't the first time he had felt something akin to this; when he had returned to Ireland after so many years away, he was struck by how familiar and different everything seemed, but then he had assumed it was because he had left Ireland as a child, and returned to it as a man. Now…he wasn't quite sure how to explain his feelings. Perhaps people always felt this way when returning to a place that once held meaning for them?

He went first to the Grantham Arms where he checked into the room Nicholson had originally booked, explained to the innkeeper that who he was and that he had come in Nicholson's place (although he did not tell the man that he had once worked up at the big house), and then retreated to his room where he paced like a restless animal for about a quarter of an hour, before finally leaving the inn to walk…where? He told himself he wanted to walk around the village, but his feet carried him away and took him directly to the place that was causing so much anxiety.

He didn't arrive on the back of a farmer's wagon this time. Nor was he a lad of eleven. And…given that he was no longer a servant, there truly could be no objection, at least in his mind, to walking right up to that great wooden door and knocking on it.

And yet he didn't. Or rather, he moved towards the corner, the same corner where she had unexpectedly slammed into his body, causing the both of them to fall…and thus beginning all that took place afterward.

He often wondered, what would have happened if she hadn't come barreling around that corner? Would they have ever spoken? Would she have ever learned his name? Would she have smiled at him? Would they…have been friends?

…Would he still be feeling this anxious?

"Can I help you?"

Tom whirled around at the voice, and met the eyes of an older man, with gray hair and moustache, dressed in a long white coat. Tom recognized the doctor, although he doubted the doctor remembered him. Tom was just a boy when he had taken ill to the point that Dr. Clarkson was called. And judging from the way the other man was looking at him, Tom felt his suspicions were correct.

"I'm from The Chronicle, my name is—"

"Oh!" Dr. Clarkson exclaimed, and for a moment Tom thought perhaps if the man had recognized him. "You're the journalist!"

Tom forced a small smile and nodded his head. "Aye, I am. My name is—"

"Lady Edith is the one that you'll want to talk to," Dr. Clarkson continued, surprising Tom by mentioning Lord Grantham's middle daughter.

"Lady Edith?"

Dr. Clarkson nodded. "She's the 'administrator' for the convalescent home, if you will. I make calls at least once a day when I am able, but she's the one that you want to speak with—as well as Nurse Crawley, of course."

Nurse Crawley. Tom remembered reading something about a Mrs. Isobel Crawley in the file that his editor had given him. She was some kind of distant relation to Lord Grantham, as well as a nurse, her late husband having been a doctor. He had also read that she was instrumental in getting the convalescent home started, so no doubt this was to whom Dr. Clarkson was referring.

"Ah, in fact that's her coming around the corner," Dr. Clarkson explained, gesturing to just over Tom's shoulder. Tom turned, not realizing that the woman in question was practically upon him. She was holding a clipboard and was too busy reading whatever was written on it to realize she was about to—

"UMPH!"

Thirteen years ago, she had caused the both of them to fall backwards, but this time it was only her clipboard that hit the gravel.

His hands shot out and caught her arms, just above her elbows, while her own hands grasped the lapels of his jacket, their actions steadying the both of them, at least for the moment. Because when she looked up at him, her eyes every bit as wide and blue as he remembered, he thought for certain his legs would give way. Despite the near collision, Dr. Clarkson proceeded with introductions. "Ah, Nurse Crawley, this is the journalist—"

"Tom?" she whispered.

She remembered him.

To be continued...