September 1995

Tom stops in the corner shop on his way home. There's nothing in the kitchen but towers of aging takeaway containers in the refrigerator, a couple of apples, and a third of a bottle of Bushmills: hardly an appropriate homecoming dinner. He wishes now that he'd taken the time to clean the flat, but between his job and freelancing there's been so much work that he's been hard pressed to keep moldy dishes from building up in the sink.

He emerges from the shop carrying a full shopping bag and a bouquet bought on impulse. It's hardly wilted at all, and she likes having flowers about, whatever she might say about them being bourgeois. Maybe he'll even have time to tidy up a bit. He walks down the darkening street, around the corner and then into a mews and he's home. There's no way they'd be able to afford this place on what he makes, or even on what two normal people make, but for a ten-minute walk to the tube station she's been able to convince him to swallow a little bit of pride.

Climbing the stairs he hears muffled music coming from behind their door, and his face breaks into a broad smile. Unless some burglars with a liking for Elastica have broken in, Sybil's back early. As he gets nearer the landing he can just hear her singing along. He props the shopping bag between himself and the wall to hunt for his keys, fumbles with the locks. Finally the last one disengages and the door falls open and he goes down the hall into the kitchen and there she is, belting out the song and washing up. She has her back to him and he stands in the doorway a moment, watching her. He feels a sudden wave of gratitude: he's so lucky. They're so lucky.

He sets down the bag quietly and goes up to embrace her from behind. She gasps and gives a little shriek, then turns and winds her arms around his neck. Her hair smells freshly washed, she's been here a little while at least. "You scared me," she accuses when she's done kissing him hello.

"You shouldn't have the music up so loud," Tom returns. "Someone's liable to sneak up on you." He reaches back around her to turn off the faucet; she smirks and gives him another kiss.

"I've missed you," she purrs against his mouth.

Not as much as I missed you. "Me as well." He rubs her back. "Leave this," he says of the half-tidied kitchen. He realizes he's almost shouting. "Can we turn this down? I can't hear myself think."

"If it's too loud, you're too old," she quips, but she goes into the lounge and lowers the volume enough that it no longer feels like Justine Frischmann's sneer is invading his head. "Are those for me?" Sybil asks when she returns, gesturing at the flowers still in his hand.

Tom had forgotten about them. "Right. Welcome home, my darling." He holds them out.

"They're lovely. Thank you." Her eyes lock on his as she tosses the bouquet on the table; the next few minutes are taken up with the feel of the smooth skin of her arms, her lips, the scent of her hair. Finally she mumbles, "I suppose I should put them in something." But she doesn't move.

Tom reaches up and grasps her forearms loosely, unwinding them from his neck and kissing one of her palms. "Are you hungry? I bought bread and cheese and wine. Indoor picnic sort of thing." He starts to unpack the shopping bag and goes into the silverware drawer for a corkscrew.

"Sure." Sybil gets out the cutting board and looks for a knife. "I see you didn't bother much with housekeeping while I was gone," she comments drily. Most of the dishes are either in the sink or the drainer.

"No time," he says lightly. "A journalist's work is never done."

She snorts. "Too many rock stars to interview?" She pretends to inspect one of the dirty plates. "I'd better not find any coke residue on these."

"Ha. Mostly I've been digging through piles of CDs trying to find decent ones to review." The A-list interviews generally go to the more senior on staff, for good or ill. Tom washes two wine glasses and pours them full. "You want to eat in here or the lounge?"

"Lounge, please."

They set themselves up on the sofa with food and wine, eating with their fingers. "So how was tour?" Tom asks.

"You know very well how it was. You only talked to me every other day." As well as exchanging mail at least twice a week. Sybil's new band has two not-unattractive blokes in it and even though they both have girlfriends, Tom's been determined to make damned sure he's top-of-mind. "Oh, I forgot to mention I saw your guitarist when I was in Leeds," Sybil tells him. "He said for me to tell you to fuck off and die."

That sounds like Hinksy, all right. He'd been a bit upset when Tom told him about the job opportunity. "Don't know what he's still so pressed about," Tom mutters. "I thought they'd found another bass player."

"Oh, he was just playing about. And Gwen and Ethel said hello."

"Did you get to see Ethel's kid?" Since Ethel announced last year that not only was she pregnant, she was keeping the baby, she's surprised everyone and done a complete turnaround. She's even talking about going back to school.

"He's a tremendous baby. Very sweet." Sybil smiles ruefully. "Though I was rather glad to be able to hand him back when he started crying."

Babies. What a foreign concept. Maybe someday. "But now that you're back," Tom says. "Now that tour's done with, what do you think of it?"

Sybil considers. "I don't know," she tells him. "It was fun. I love playing. It just... it feels a little shallow, you know? I feel like maybe I should be doing something more meaningful with my life than being up on stage with a lot of drunks staring at my tits."

"You can't blame them," Tom jokes, "you do have very nice tits." He dodges Sybil's playful smack and leans in to kiss her. Her mouth tastes of wine. Before long they're reclined together on the sofa, lighter by several articles of clothing, provisions forgotten.

"Mmm," Sybil murmurs, running her fingers along the frayed waistband of Tom's jeans, brushing against his belly. "I wondered when we'd get to this." She's got a point: a year ago they'd never have eaten first.

"We have calmed down some, haven't we?" Her skin's so soft under the pads of his fingers. He's actually rather glad that they can be more leisurely now. He remembers their last reunion after a long separation, when she came down for the weekend a month after he moved to London. They were shaking with eagerness, unable to keep their hands off each other in the taxi from Kings Cross to that rattrap in Mile End he'd shared with friends-of-friends. He'd practically pulled her inside and had her against his bedroom door. They hardly left the room for two days, and that was saying a lot, as it had been a large pantry before someone figured out they could charge rent for it.

That was the weekend that swept away Tom's resolve to pay his own way at all times, as well as any doubts about it being too soon for them to move in together. He didn't want to live without Sybil anymore: it was as simple as that. And he wanted to give her better than a mattress on the floor in a windowless box of a room. Even if it meant accepting her help.

And now, especially right now, he's so very glad he did. It's been a wonderful year.

-o-

It's late and they've adjourned to the bed, bringing the wine but leaving the remnants of the baguette and cheese scattered on the table. They finish the bottle and Sybil says, "All right, I know you've got some whiskey around somewhere." So Tom pads into the kitchen, accompanied by Sybil's voice commanding him to bring glasses and ice, as well.

"What, you think I'm some kind of savage who drinks out of the bottle?" He calls back. He drops ice cubes into two glasses - freshly washed, by necessity - and balances them in one hand while he carries the bottle in the other.

"How do I know? This afternoon the place rather looked like Brendan Behan lived here."

"Oh, come now. You told me you weren't getting in until later," Tom retorts as he reenters the bedroom. "I was planning to tidy up." He climbs back into bed and pours them drinks. Sybil's sitting up in bed with the covers around her waist, and he imagines trickling a stream of whiskey over a pink-tipped breast. Licking it off.

She catches his look. "What?" Then she twigs and smirks at him over her glass. "You never stop, do you."

"Would you want me any other way? And you are naked. You can't fault me for looking."

"I suppose not," she allows, but she doesn't seem inclined to do anything with her whiskey other than drink it. She settles back against the pillows and pulls the covers up under her arms.

"You know what I was thinking about on tour?" She muses. "It's funny, but I miss volunteering at the hospital. I was just doing menial things, really. But I was helping people."

"And you enjoyed that?"

"I don't know if I enjoyed it. It was satisfying, though. It was nice to get to the end of the day and be tired and feel as though I'd really done something." Ice clinks as she sips her drink. "Maybe I will go into nursing." She sighs. "Mum and Dad will be disappointed I'm not doing something more... prestigious."

"You should do what you want to do," Tom says. "And maybe you're selling them short. They've been civil enough to me, and I must be an awful disappointment for them." He grins at her.

Sybil snorts. "They've come round a bit now that you're a journalist. It's terribly vulgar, but at least it's not dirty." She delivers the last sentence with an exaggerated toff accent. The effect is especially comical as her voice is so posh to begin with.

"You don't think it's vulgar, though?" He can't keep his voice from rising at the end, making it a question. He wonders if she knows how much he wants to be worthy of her admiration.

"No! Of course not." She sets down her drink and nestles close to him, her hand on his cheek, looking into his eyes. "Tom, you know I only want you to do what makes you happy."

"Right." About that... "I've actually been thinking about trying to get a different job. I did some freelancing for the Guardian while you were gone." Tom understands Sybil's ambivalence about her current life: his original ambition to report on politics, conflict, the real stories, has been pulling at him.

"Oh?"

"Just a few things. But the editor liked them. He says I'm hungry." Sybil smiles, pride surging up in her. "He said he'd keep an eye out for a position, if I wanted to come on staff."

"That's great."

"I don't know, though. I'd have to travel. Depending on what I'm covering, it could even be dangerous."

She cocks an eyebrow. "More dangerous than interviewing Liam Gallagher?" Tom chuckles. "Seriously, though, sometimes you have to take a risk to get something worth having." He of all people should know that.

"I know. But I have to think of you now. I don't want to make a decision without you having a say."

"Don't worry about me. You know what I think." She kisses him, then lies back. Tom lays his head on her chest and snuggles into her, curling his arm around her ribs.

"What a pair we'll be," he murmurs. "The nurse and the reporter."

"We're such romantic idealists." She plays with his hair, deciding whether to mention the other thing she thought so much about during her travels. You have to take a risk to get something worth having: she said it herself. "Tom?"

"Yeah?" She's silent so long that he lifts his head to look at her, then sits up at seeing her serious face. "What is it?"

"Do you think we should - would you want to..." She bites her lip. "Oh, sod it. Will you marry me?"

She doesn't know what reaction she expected. Certainly not laughter; especially not head-thrown-back, eyes-squeezed-shut, full-throated laughter. Sybil glares at her boyfriend.

"What?" She demands indignantly. "What's so funny?" She's starting to feel ridiculous. Is it that she was the one to propose? He can't be a closet traditionalist. Can he?

A few tears trickle from the corners of his eyes. "Nothing, nothing. I was..." He finally manages to get control of himself, the bastard. "I was just remembering what you told me when we first started going out." An errant giggle bubbles out. "How you didn't want a boyfriend. And now..." he smiles broadly at her, triumphant.

Sybil gives him a thunderous look. "Yes, yes, I remember." She folds her arms across her chest and rolls her eyes. "Well, you've won, Mr. Branson. I'm all yours. So just go ahead and laugh."

His face becomes serious. "Love, I'm not laughing at you. I'm sorry."

She pouts. "I'm still waiting for an answer. Though to be honest, I'm not sure which one I want anymore."

"Yes. Yes, my darling, I will marry you. God, of course I will." He enfolds her in his arms and kisses her, though she turns her head so that it lands on her cheek.

She can't help smiling, though. "You're sure?" she asks.

"It's all I want. We can go and knock up the registrar right now. I won't even put on my clothes."

Now Sybil has to laugh. She kisses him back, on the mouth this time. "It doesn't have to be quite as soon as that." She slides her hands around his shoulders and draws him towards her. "Besides, I can think of something else I'd rather do right now. And it does not involve putting on clothes."

So in their own way, they celebrate their engagement.

Afterward, Sybil's lazing pleasantly, almost dozing, when Tom speaks up: "Sybil?"

"Mm?"

"Do you, er... you don't want a big wedding, do you?"

"God, no."

She can hear the smile in his voice when he replies. "Good."

- really the end -

Appendix I: More Love Songs

Zombies: This Will Be Our Year

Roxy Music: Take a Chance with Me

Etta James: At Last

Mekons: Special

Talking Heads: Happy Day

The Damned: Love Song

The Jam: English Rose

Velvet Underground: I Found a Reason

Replacements: Hold My Life

Buzzcocks: Love You More

Elliott Smith: Say Yes

AN: Thanks so much to everyone who has read, followed, favorited and/or reviewed this fic! I hope you've enjoyed it. I've had a wonderful time writing it. Obviously I've left some things open, so I may revisit this AU as the spirit moves me.