AN: We'll start with their first night, in their first bed. I'm sure the Bransons' wedding night has been done to death, but I'm getting to a conflict point in my other fic and wanted to write something happy to cheer myself up... so I'll just add mine to the pile.

May 1919

Sybil Branson sat tucked up in bed with an open book. She was not reading, but it seemed fitting that she should have something to do with her hands. She hadn't spent much time getting ready: just washed up and taken the pins out of her hair, letting it flow over her shoulders. She hadn't been sure what to wear, so she'd put on the nicer of her two nightgowns.

At present she was absorbed in taking the measure of her new bedroom. It had clearly been decorated by a man: which was to say, not decorated at all. Tom had been here for the past two weeks, since they'd leased the flat. With the help of her future sisters-in-law, Sybil had done much of the work of setting the place up, but she hadn't yet spent much time in here.

She'd been amused - if frustrated - at how scrupulously Tom observed the appearance of propriety. And it seemed there were always people around to look. Even in the moments alone they'd been able to arrange, she'd found him surprisingly unbending where her virtue was concerned. "We're going to be married in a month," she'd teased, or "three weeks," or "four days. It really doesn't matter at this point, don't you think?"

He disagreed. "I don't want you to feel like you're stuck here," he'd told her, even after she assured him for what seemed like the twentieth time that she couldn't imagine feeling that way, and anyway she'd probably been ruined in the eyes of everyone back in her old life the moment she stepped onto the train with him. So their private interviews would always end before any clothing was too disarranged. Stopping obviously gave Tom some difficulty, but he seemed to take a certain pleasure in it as well.

"Is this your revenge for making you wait all that time?" She'd asked him once, not altogether playfully. She was still breathing quite hard and her lips felt pleasantly raw; it was evening, and he needed to shave.

He'd grinned at her. "I never thought of it that way. Maybe it is."

And finally yesterday had come, along with Sybil's sisters, and today had come, with the dim, echoing church and the rite of marriage, the words and motions that Tom and Sybil had studied together the last few evenings. Mary and Edith in fluttering cream and lemon yellow, placing decorous kisses on Sybil's brow and cheeks through her veil, squeezing her hand with their gloved ones. They contrasted utterly with Tom's sisters, ebullient Kathleen and shy Orla, smiling diffidently in their serviceable Sunday best. Kathleen only a year older than Sybil, not even married two years and already with a second child on the way, but still sparking with energy for all that. She'd asked Sybil if there was anything she wanted to know, a few hours before Mary and Edith had arrived.

"What do I need to know?" Sybil had asked her.

"Well, you being a nurse, I suppose you have the basic idea," Kathleen replied, and then shot her a pointed look. "You do know how it works?" Sybil had nodded, her cheeks going pink. Kath was the person in her new family that she felt the easiest connection with, but she was suddenly tonguetied.

"Well, there'll be no surprises there then." Her future sister-in-law had patted her hand. "Sybil, love, there's nothing to fret about. Our Tom's a good man and he loves you, and he'll treat you well, and you will him." She'd smiled rather wickedly then, and added, "have fun."

After the service they'd moved to the rented hall for cake and punch: anything more was beyond them, even with a relatively small gathering. The men would go to the pub later, the women to someone's house, to gather in kitchen and parlor. Each group would talk of their own topics: politics and children, the difficulty of getting along in the world, and the foolishness of the couple whose joining they'd just witnessed. It'll never last, was the general consensus; But I'll not be the one to say it to those two, and didn't they look grand today, though.

Mary and Edith would not join the other women. By evening they were safely ensconced in the dining room of respectable friends of the Crawleys outside Dublin, having taken leave of Sybil with more kisses and entreaties to write often. "Mama says she'll be expecting to read all about the wedding by next week," Mary had told Sybil. Their father was not mentioned; nor was the possibility of another visit, on either side.

And now waiting was for the past, as the bedroom door opened. Tom walked in and smiled at her, though he didn't speak. He went over to the wardrobe and began changing for bed. Sybil kept her face averted, pretending to read, her eyes cutting over from under her lashes. After he'd finished his preparations he came over and sat half-reclined on top of the coverlet next to her.

She looked up to meet his dancing eyes. "Hello, my darling wife," he said. The look on his face was so him - adoring, alert, not a little devilish. Sybil laughed at the sight of it, blushing.

"Hello, my darling husband," she replied, setting aside her book.

He leaned over and gave her a kiss. "Do you know," he said, "this is the first night we'll sleep in our own bed together, as husband and wife."

"Yes."

"I know I'm just stating the obvious, but that makes me very happy."

She smiled. "Me as well."

He kissed her again, and they did not speak for several minutes. Eventually they moved for him to slip under the covers with her, for her to turn out the bedside lamp and slide down to lie on the pillow, for them to settle into an embrace, looking into one another's eyes by firelight. He stroked her hair.

"Don't be nervous," he told her. "If I do anything that's uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, I'll stop. All you have to do is say." He kissed the tip of her nose. "I just want to make you happy."

"I'm not nervous," she said. Then, amending: "not very."

Their lips met once again. His hand moved from Sybil's hair to her back, lightly stroking from her shoulder blades down to her lower back, then massaging her there. "Mmmm," she moaned into his mouth. The sound and the sensation of it quickened his blood, and he clasped her closer.

"Sybil... my love," he whispered into her ear. Slow and gentle, always slow and gentle, even with desire trying to spur him on. He'd never tire of kissing her: on her lips, on her cheeks, her throat, her earlobes. Her sweet, clean scent. They rolled over so that she lay on her back, with him hovering over her. The missionary position: but not yet. Not yet.

They moved together, more urgently now, letting small sounds escape from their throats. She gasped a little as he forgot himself, grinding his body against hers. "I'm sorry," he panted, pulling back, burying his face in the spot where her neck met her shoulder - trying to slow himself down.

"Don't apologise." She shrugged his head off of her shoulder and took his face in both her hands, reared up to kiss him deeply, bringing his head down towards hers. Her tongue ran along his upper lip, delicately seeking entry: familiar enough territory for them. He opened his mouth and met the tip of her tongue with his own. "Everything's fine," she murmured reassuringly, between kisses. "I'm fine."

He shifted again to lie half on his side, freeing his hand to stroke her face and hair once again, to travel slowly down her shoulder, her side, her hip. Under the coverlet, to the hem of her nightgown; back up, to the hinge of her legs.

Sybil's eyes snapped open. "What are you doing?"

He froze. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No-ooo. Just - what are you doing?"

Tom kissed her softly. "Making you happy." Slowly and gently, he began to move his hand again.

"Oh." And a minute later: "Oh."

There was a period of relative quiet, of concentration and wonder, and then she gasped, "Tom - wait, wait - " but for the first time that night, he did not obey her.

"Was that all right?" He asked, after a moment.

"Good God." She sat up. "I thought I was going to - I thought there was going to be an accident." The light from the fire was too dim and ruddy for him to see if she was blushing, but her gaze dropped and the corners of her lips curved upward. He reached up to caress her cheek; she caught his hand in both of hers, kissed it lightly.

Then, with one abrupt motion, she pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it onto the floor. "So, my darling husband," she said, smirking, "what's next?"

Tom blinked and, swallowing, tore his gaze back up to her face. "I can't tell you," he replied, with a smirk of his own, as he pulled her head down to his. "I'll have to show you."

-o-

Later, Sybil Branson lay with her head in the hollow of her husband's shoulder, her fingertips idly prancing on his chest and arm as he dozed. The fire was low and the room was getting chilly, and she shivered and pulled the comforter up over her shoulders. Tom sighed contentedly in his half-sleep, settling more deeply under the covers, running his hand over her forearm.

Funny, she thought, how one little act can hold so much importance. The difference between married and unmarried, near and remote, pure and unclean, in so many people's minds. But for all that it was just a tiny thing, the relative position of two bodies.

Still, she did feel different. She'd trusted him tonight to see her nakedness, to see what she looked and acted like without her veneer of control, and to continue to love and honor her just as well as before. And he'd trusted her with the same. She'd not expected him to be so passionate, considering the restraint he'd exercised in the last month. She smiled, thinking of it.

Sybil had told Kathleen the truth: before tonight, she'd known "how it worked" - at least in the physical sense. Her medical training, as well as her work experience and conversations with people who'd lived less sheltered lives, had given her that much information and more. But information and knowledge, she reflected, were two different things.

-o-

They woke in the grey dawn. Tom thought it must be because they were both so eager to begin the next chapter in their life together; at least he felt that way. Whatever the reason, neither of them felt like going back to sleep. Nor did they want to brave the early-morning chill outside the comforter, not yet. So they huddled together under the covers, talking, enjoying the warmth.

At length Sybil said they'd never get out of bed if someone didn't build up the fire, following that remark with a significant look at her husband. Tom sighed indulgently, plucked up his willpower and ventured out. Sybil propped her head up on her hand, the better to take in the view before he shrugged into his robe. He caught her looking and chuckled. Maybe they'd lie in a little longer.

Once the fire no longer required attention, Tom slipped back into bed and turned to his wife with a question in his eyes that she already recognized. She'd seen it before they married, of course, more than once. But never had it contained the hope of an immediate answer. Now she gave him one.

They moved slowly over each other's sleep-soft skin, exploring with hands, with lips, with arms and legs and feet. As the fire gradually increased the small flat's temperature, as their own exertions warmed them, they could emerge from the bedding and explore with their eyes as well. Last night Tom had been solicitous, almost solemn at times. Today, things were much more relaxed. They flirted with each other, giggled at their awkwardness, rolled and growled and nipped like puppies playing. They did not hurry.

After a time they joined together softly, the moment marked with a sigh from Sybil, a hushed moan from Tom, the beginning of a more regular rhythm. Sybil began to sense a building up of something like what had so surprised her last night, and unconsciously she intensified her movements. But the feeling remained elusive, receding if she chased it too assiduously or broke their rhythm. Tom's mouth on her neck, his hand on the side of her breast, coaxed it back. She started to move faster, he responded to match her, and presently she cried out, shuddering, her hands groping at his back.

He watched her face, arousal outstripping any reverence he felt, though later he would wonder for the hundredth time how he had gotten so lucky. Now he let go of control, moving as his body told him to. When he came Sybil hugged him to her, bringing him as close as she could. They did not let each other go for a while.

Finally she wriggled a bit and he lifted his head. "Was that all right?" She asked him impudently, and he laughed and kissed her.

TBC