Any Difference

By: piperholmes

A/N: My Secret Santa Fic exchange gift for gothamgirl28! She requested a different ending to the drawing room scene when Tom and Sybil declare their intentions to marry. I hope this lives up to your expectation my dear. You are fantastic and a great friend and fellow S/T fan. ^_^ (Unbeta'd because I'm super lazy).

December 1930

"Nurse Branson."

Sybil's head shot up from where she'd been folding and tucking in a freshly washed blanket across the cot. Most of the other nurses found the daily chores of keeping the cottage hospital running tedious, but even after nearly 12 years in Ireland Sybil still found a personal victory in each well-made bed.

Smoothing down her apron, grateful it was free of some of the more inconvenient stains that came with nursing, she turned to the head nurse.

"Yes Nurse Dolan?"

Sybil's smile slipped slightly as she took in the older woman's frown, her grey watery eyes bewildered and sad. Something had happened. There was a hesitancy, a reserve Sybil had never seen before.

"I…well, I've been sent to tell you…there's someone here to see you," she finished softly sending a shiver of alarm through Sybil.

"Who? What's happened? Tom? The children?" Sybil asked, her heart pounding loudly in her ears, forcing her to speak carefully so she didn't shout out it.

Nurse Dolan shook her head and Sybil could see the conflict on her face. The motherly figure had always made Sybil feel welcomed, had given her patience, her wisdom, her humor to help her grow in her job and become a valued member of the staff. She had fought Sybil's corner on more than one occasion when her accent put people off. But now she could see the Irishwoman keeping herself back, suspicious.

Glancing about, ensuring there were no other listening ears, her mentor took a breath.

"The Earl and Countess of Grantham are here to see you."

Sybil blinked, her brow lowering, as if she didn't hear.

"Did you understand girl? His Lordship is waiting for you."

Her stomach dropped as the words rushed over her, fear, anger, uncertainty, longing all warred within her, drowning out the rest of the world, causing her skin to erupt in the pinks and reds of a sunburned day.

"It can't be."

April 1919

"Oh this is a folly! A ridiculous juvenile madness!" Lord Grantham laughed humorlessly.

"Sybil," her granny interrupted. "What do you have in mind?"

"Mama, this is hardly-" her father tried again.

"No," the old woman's hand went up, damming his words. "She must have something in mind otherwise she wouldn't have summoned him here tonight."

"Thank you Granny," Sybil said softly, already weary of this fight. "Yes we do have a plan. Tom's got a job at a paper—"

Her father scoffed but Sybil paid him no mind.

"I'll stay until after the wedding, I don't want to steal their thunder," her eyes moving to Matthew and Lavinia, "but after that I'll go to Dublin."

"To live with him? Unmarried?" her mother asked, her blue eyes wide with shock and horror.

It all seemed so ridiculous to Sybil; all the melodrama, the pain. She loved a man, a good man, who loved her back.

Patiently she explained, "I'll live with his mother while the banns are read," she turned to Tom, unable to hide the smile as she spoke the words she'd so longed to declare. "And then we'll be married, and I'll get a job as a nurse."

"What does your mother make of this?" The Dowager demanded, her sharp gaze on Tom.

Sybil felt him stiffen, knew the pain these words brought. "If you must know she thinks we're very foolish."

The derisive laugh brought Sybil no comfort. "Well at least we have something in common."

"I won't allow it! I will not allow my daughter to throw away her life!" The Earl exploded, all pretense of civility gone.

"You can posture all you like Papa, it won't make any difference."

"Oh yes it will," he insisted, his eyes full of fire.

"How?" she snapped, her own control slipping. "I don't want any money and you can hardly lock me up until I die. I will say goodnight but I can promise you one thing, tomorrow morning nothing will have changed."

"No," her father answered, so quietly, so coldly it froze Sybil, hindering her exit. "No, I suppose it will not."

She turned to face him and saw a stranger.

"You threatened me once, many years ago, swore I'd be sorry," he continued, his hushed tones reminding Sybil of those moments following the frantic efforts to save a young soldier, when the shouting and chaos died down and all that they could do was watch as a young life slipped from the world.

His words needed no explanation, they all knew, all remembered the younger version of herself, standing up for the boy who stood next to her now.

"I should have sent you packing years ago," he said, addressing that boy now.

"I suppose from your position that seems true," Tom acknowledge and Sybil felt her anger cool, a steam of sadness watering her eyes.

"I won't make the same mistake twice," The Earl of Grantham declared, and Sybil was sure if he had shouted those words it would have been less painful, but his voice remained constrained, concise, cutting. "Get out."

"Papa—"

"Both of you."

Three words.

Three very simple words, so softly spoken.

That was all it took to forever change a family.

A stunned silence stretched as all eyes turned to the patriarch.

"You will pack your things and leave tonight. You may take anything you wish. I have no need of your jewels or dresses. You will leave this house and you will never return."

He turned from her then, the cut direct.

"Papa?" She whispered, pain making it difficult to breathe.

"Robert," her mother intervened, standing, moving to her youngest. "You can't be serious."

"You're simply to cast her aside?" his own mother demanded. "As if she were no more than a naughty servant?"

He whirled to face them. "That is the life she wishes. She wants none of what I have given her."

"That's not true," Sybil insisted. "I love you dearly Papa."

"Papa," Mary began. "Perhaps we should allow Branson to go to Ireland, give Sybil time to consider—"

"No," he spoke over her attempts. "I may not recognize this woman, but I do know enough about her to know that she will not be dissuaded, and I have no wish to fight with her any longer. She thinks she is so wise to the world, let her go. Let her find out what life is like without the privileges she so ardently hates."

Cora's arms went around her daughter. "Robert I will not allow you to send her away forever."

Robert's face grew red. "This is what comes of spoiling her, the mad clothes, the nursing."

"That's not fair," Cora said. "She's a wonderful nurse and she's worked very hard."

"But in the process she's forgotten who she is!"

"Has she? Or have we overlooked who she really is?"

"I will not hear anymore of this," he spoke. "It's very simple Sybil: you will either give him up to be with us or you will give us up to be with him."

"Don't say anything you may have to retract," the Dowager cried, struggling to her feet.

"You can't," Sybil gasped, finding her voice. "You can't take my mother and sisters from me. They are mine."

"Not any more." Robert Crawley had spent years ruling his tiny bit of the kingdom, he wasn't to be questioned or challenged, and the finality in his voice was enough to rip the hope from her heart. "Carson, if this man isn't off the estate in the next 10 minutes you will call the police."

He gave no other word as he turned from her for the final time.

There was no time. There was no doubt the Earl would follow through on his threat.

Sybil had to leave with him now.

Her body shook as she fought to keep her tears at bay.

Stepping away from her mother, she silently made her way to her granny, placing a kiss against the wrinkled skin of her cheek.

Her lips began to quiver and she pressed them tightly together as she moved to her sisters.

"Please," Edith whispered. "Don't do this."

Sybil's breath caught in her throat as a sob fought for release. She merely shook her head, taking her older sister in her arms and hugging her tightly, squeezing her eyes shut as she felt the warmth of Edith's tears on her neck.

With a shaky smile she stepped away, moving towards her Mary.

"You were a beautiful baby," Mary said, her words controlled. "And an even more beautiful woman."

Sybil wrapped her arms are her oldest sister, memories bursting between them; whispers, dreams, promises, secrets, laughter, tears, anger, kindness, warriors, best friends, sisters.

"I will fight your corner," Mary whispered in her ear, one last declaration between sisters.

Sybil pulled away, forcing her feet to move. Stiffly she gave both Lavinia and Matthew a kiss on the cheek, the pity in their eyes enough to knot her stomach.

With her head held high she walked past her father, his back to her as he gazes unseeing into the fireplace.

Her voice was surprisingly steady as she offered one final farewell to him. "Goodbye Papa."

As she expected he gave no reply.

Her eyes met Tom's, saw the tears he too struggled to keep in check, and with a sinking heart she knew there was one last goodbye to bid.

Her mother stood by her future husband, and for a moment Sybil allowed herself to see them as family, as two people who had come to know one another and love one another. She saw two people that both loved her desperately, and for a moment she allowed herself to believe that was enough to unite them.

The tear that rolled down her mother's cheek broke the spell, and with calm resolve she stepped into the familiar peace of her mother's embrace. Her tentative hold gave way as her mother's smell permeated her mind, and soon she was sobbing into her shoulder.

"You'll always be my baby," Cora cooed, stroking her hairs as she had in days gone by. "My beauty and my baby."

Sybil felt the shift, a subtle realization that her time with her mother was over. She made to move but the hold around her tightened, a desperate unwillingness to let go.

"I'm so sorry Mama," she breathed. "I love you all so much, but I can't go back to not loving him, to not being the person I am with him."

She felt her mother's arms relax, and matching pairs of blue eyes met, forgiveness petitioned and received.

Without another word Sybil walked away from her mother, pausing only long enough to gaze at the man she was choosing, before walking out, her tears falling quietly down her face.

"Sybil?"

She knew he would follow her out, knew he would be there. She stopped, turning to him, flying into his arms.

It was still so new, so unlike her mother's hold, but she drew courage from the contented feeling, from the smell she now knew was all him.

"You should go. I'll run up and prepare my valise. I'll meet you at the cottage." She needed to get away from it all. She needed a moment to herself and without waiting for his response she flew up the stairs.

With shaking hands she packed her clothes, a few trinkets, and the money she'd been squaring away the last few months. She had made her choice and she was strong enough to live with the consequences, but her pain was raw, bleeding.

"Do you need help m'lady?"

The lump in her throat made it difficult to answer, and with a nod of appreciation she allowed Anna to help her change into a simple dress, one last time.

She met no one on the stairs as she walked back down. It was as if the entire house was rejecting her.

With one foot in front of the other, she firmly made her way to the one person who was always so accepting of who she was, who she really was.

The spring night was cool, the last of winter's chill clinging in the darkness, seeping into the fabric of her coat. It was refreshing, stinging, distracting.

The house loomed behind her, but she refused to look back, her eyes firmly on the tiny cottage where she could see a dark figure waiting for her. Faster she moved, the desire to be with him a propelling her forward.

The sadness on his face was accentuated by the pale light of the moon, the shadows cast across his skin painting patches of darkness. She could feel his conflict.

"My darling girl," he greeted her. "I will ask you one more time, and I ask out of a deep love and respect for your happiness. Please, are you sure?"

His humble offer, to give her up, the direct response to the weight of all she was giving up for him, making him feel small and uncertain.

She didn't answer his question.

"My heart is breaking Tom."

His head lowered in resignation.

"Help me heal."

His eyes were wide as he raised his head.

"What do we do now?" she asked, needing him, knowing she could rely on him.

Taking a deep breath, he took her hand in his. "We run Sybil."

Her brow lowered in confusion.

"We run as far and as fast as we want. No more hiding, no more pretending, no more limping around in shadows. We run."

Her fingers tightened around his, and he took her bag in his other hand.

"We run?" she parroted.

"Run," Tom confirmed.

Sybil felt the corners of her lips turn up as she considered his words.

"Do you think you can? The grand Lady Sybil? Hitching up her skirt and running," Tom teased.

"You just try and keep up Tom Branson!"

And she began to run, her arm tugging him along until he too was dashing down the lane, hand in hand.

It felt good. It felt as if she'd spent her life caged and for the first time could feel the freedom of her muscles stretching and burning, strengthening.

A madness, a wildness overtook them, laughter mingled with tears as they abandoned all that had kept them apart for so long.

Sybil squared her shoulders as she walked down the hall, the memory of the last time she'd seen her family still so fresh-even after all this time.

There had been some leniency to her sentence.

About six months after she'd left Downton she'd begun receiving letters from her Granny. She was certain her Papa had no idea, and even if he did Sybil suspected it would make no difference to the Dowager Countess.

Sybil's anger had kept her from responding immediately, but her Granny persisted. And soon they were corresponding regularly.

At first it had been painful, to read about the people she loved, to learn so much secondhand, but soon enough, as most thing do, with time it became bearable, it became normal.

As the year turned she received as especially thick envelope, and was delighted and surprised to find two additional letters, one from each sister, enfolded in her granny's. Sybil was absolutely sure her father had no knowledge of this, and her eyes filled with tears as she felt love and pride extend beyond the sea that separated them.

Tom knew of the letters, but no one else in Ireland did. Sybil never spoke of her family, never explained her history. Her friends knew she was from York and had served as a nurse during the war but Sybil had left her aristocratic life and title behind and had no use to for either. She was simply Mrs. Sybil Branson.

She was so grateful for her husband; the man who held her as she mourned missing Mary and Matthew's wedding, wept for Edith's pain, then rejoiced as her middle sister finally found happiness. He never pitied her though, never insulted her for knowing her own mind.

The one day the letters had stopped.

Weeks went by until one day a large envelope appeared from Mr. Murray's office. Mary's neat and careful writing broke the news of her grandmother's passing, and the accompanying paperwork was for the funds the Dowager had allotted for the education of Sybil and Tom's children.

Tom's eyes had grown wide when he'd seen the sum. "Good heavens! How many children did she expect us to have?"

Sybil had laughed through her tears. She'd been heavily pregnant with their second child at the time—a little girl they'd named Violet.

The Bransons had been surprised when letters from Downton Abbey soon began to arrive; letters from her mother. She'd given no explanation beyond the platitude that death could often bring regret, and Sybil assumed her father had soften some since losing his own mother.

Yet still her father remained silent, no mention was made of him and no offer or invitation to return ever came. And Sybil was grateful.

There had been a few telephone calls and a great deal of letters, but now as she stood outside the door, she feared it would be strangers to greet her.

Her had was firm as she turned the knob, stepping into the doctors' private lounge which had been made available to the Earl and his wife.

"Matthew?" Confusion marred her brow as her mind struggled to reconcile the man who stood before her with the image of the man she expected. "I thought—" but the words caught in her throat.

Matthew, and beside him Mary, both clothed in black: the Earl and Countess.

"Oh Sybil darling," Mary said simply, confirming what she assumed showed clearly on her face.

Sybil accepted the news of her father's passing with a nod.

"He sent us here," Mary explained, stepping closer. "We would have come anyway, but he knew he wasn't—he made Matthew and I promise to come find you."

Sybil didn't know how to feel, to respond. She wished Tom were there, to stand with her, her partner. She longed to take her sister into her arms but it all felt so foreign, so awkward.

"We've come to bring you home," Mary continued. "Mama is frantic to see you."

"I am home," Sybil interrupted, the abruptness of her tone startling her sister and brother-in-law.

"Of course dear," Mary began slowly. "I only meant—"

"And Mama could have come see me at any point over the last 12 years."

"Sybil," Mary warned. "It's not like that for her. You know that."

Sybil's arms crossed over her chest, protectively. "I know what it's like to be a mother Mary. I can't imagine ever allowing my child to walk out of my life and not put up a fight."

"You don't think she fought for you?" Mary cried. "Sybil, we all fought for you. We tried my darling. It was so difficult though. It was never the same after that night. It hasn't been—my dear haven't we all been punished enough?"

Her words squeezed at Sybil's heart, a heart that had healed but not forgotten.

"I've missed you every day," Sybil confessed.

"But you don't regret it?" Mary asked, her fear of the answer thinly concealed.

"No, never," came the quick reply. "I have a husband and he's a wonderful, wonderful man. I have a family of my own. My children, my work, my life is here now. I have filled the hole that was in my heart Mary and I don't know if I can reopen those wounds. I don't come alone Mary. I come with him. I will always come with him."

"Papa was wrong to send you away, to send both of you away," her sister spoke, her voice tired, and Sybil frowned as she noted the graying hairs at her temple, and she realized she'd always pictured Mary just as she'd looked that night. She'd aged. They both had. She wondered if her appearance had surprised Mary. "But it's up to you to decide if it's too late to make things right."

Tentatively the new Countess of Grantham stepped forward, her arms hesitantly embracing her sister. It was the smell that assaulted her senses, the clean, crisp scent of Mary's lotion, the same lotion her mother used, that Edith used, that Tom saved his penny money at the end of each month in order to buy for her every Christmas. It was a scent she hoped to pass on to her daughters.

They were family.

"No," Sybil whispered. "It's never too late."

Thanks for reading and thanks to gothamgirl28 for the excellent prompt! I hope I did it justice!