MERRY CHRISTMAS MAGFREAK!
From your “Sybil/Tom Blogger Secret Santa” :oD
Tom x Sybil Secret Santa blog post 3 of 3
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When Miss Sarah Crawford met Lady Sybil Crawley…
"Look, Auntie Thybil, look!"
The woman rose to her feet, one hand still clasping the child’s, but lifted her eyes to meet Sarah’s and to thank her…
Sarah’s smile faded and her eyes grew wide as she stared back into the eyes…into the face really, that…that somehow…
This wasn’t a woman who looked similarly to herself. This was a woman who looked just like herself! It was like…gazing back at her reflection…
And clearly the same thoughts were going through the other woman’s mind as well, as she stared back at Sarah with wide eyes full of shock and disbelief, while Elizabeth jumped up and down, giggling and pointing back and forth between the two of them.
"Two Thybils!" she cheered.
—chapter 5
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When Lady Sybil (pretending to be Sarah) met Tom Branson…
"Mr. Branson? I was sent up here to see if there is anything you nee—OH!"
Her hand flew to her mouth…and she stared…at the man who stood at the other end of the room, a towel pressed against his face, his hair slicked back from water, droplets dripping down from his head, onto his shoulders, down his neck, down his back, down his chest…his naked chest.
He wore no shirt. She had just walked on him in the midst of washing his face and from the look of things, pouring water all over his head, hair, and the back of his neck—no wonder he hadn’t heard her. And now the towel was covering his face, his large hands using it to naturally dry and wipe away the soapy residue from his head, though it dripped down his body…and Sybil stared at the muscles on display.
He was not the first half-naked man she had seen. During the War, she had seen many men in even further states of undress, some of them whose clothes she had to cut away and remove herself, to tend to their injuries. She had also bathed many of these men, running a sponge along their bodies, quickly putting aside any embarrassing feelings about propriety, and seeing to her work as a nurse.
…So why was this affecting her? Why seeing this particular man, without his shirt…the water and soap dripping down his neck…rolling over his broad shoulders…his muscular chest…his flat stomach…soaking the waistband of his dark trousers…
Her breath caught as he tossed the towel he had been using aside, her eyes widening even further as they drifted back to his face.
Good heavens, where had THAT thought come from? But it seemed appropriate; he was…very handsome. He had a strong jaw, a fine nose, there was a soft cleft in his chin, and his hair reminded her of some of the wheat fields she saw around Downton; a light brown in shadow, but when the sun poked through the window as it was just doing behind him, a dark gold color.
How long had she been standing there, gaping at him? He didn’t seem to realize he had an audience until he reached for what she could only conclude was his shirt, and turned his body to begin putting it on…when he suddenly looked up, his eyes going wide as they met hers, and Sybil had to bite back the gasp at finally seeing the color of his eyes…a deep blue, with flecks of green.
His voice was rich and warm, a lyrical tenor with a deep Irish brogue. Irish—he was Irish apparently.
"Who are you?" he demanded, and Sybil gasped, suddenly feeling so foolish for her silly behavior, like that of an addle-brained school girl preparing for her first London season.
"I…I…" she was stammering and no doubt her face was on fire, judging from the heat she could feel in her cheeks. Oh Lord, why couldn’t a hole suddenly appear to swallow her up? "I…" she actually stomped her foot to get her brain to stop sounding like a broken phonograph. "I…I was told to come up here and…and see if you needed anything," she finally managed to get out, hating herself for how silly and stupid she sounded. Oh God, Sarah would never have done anything like this! She probably wouldn’t have even tried to enter the man’s room!
"Oh…" he murmured, still standing and looking back at her rather awkwardly. He still held his shirt in his hands, and had yet to make a move of putting it on. "Um…no, no thank you," he answered.
"Right then," Sybil swallowed, forcing her eyes to look at the ground and not at the man’s naked chest or handsome face. "Well…" she began to turn then. "Well, I…I’ll leave you to it." And without another word, she grabbed the doorknob and pulled it quickly shut.
Oh good God, what had just happened!? "I’ll leave you to it?" What did that mean? Could she have sounded any more…any more…?
Oh God, she wanted to die. She had promised Sarah she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her name or work here, at the Grantham Arms, and her first day wasn’t even finished, and she had probably done enough to be sacked. This was horrible, absolutely—
Sybil froze, her eyes widening as she realized he was calling out to her. A voice in her head was urging her to ignore him, to keep walking away and pretend that she hadn’t heard him, but then she started to hear his footsteps approaching, and so she realized walking away wouldn’t be an option as he would no doubt follow her, so with a deep breath, she turned to face him, prepared to face whatever reprimand he had to give, and rightfully so—
"I didn’t get your name."
Sybil’s eyes went wide, and she looked up at him then, staring in disbelief…and feeling her knees weaken slightly at the rather roguish smile he was wearing. He was also wearing a shirt.
"My…my name?" she murmured. He wanted to know her name? That was why he had called out to her.
His smile only seemed to spread, and he extended his hand to her. “Tom Branson.”
Tom Branson. Mr. Branson. Tom.
"Sybil…" she answered, moving her hand to shake his, then pulled back suddenly before they touched, realizing what she had just said. "SARAH! I mean Sarah," she corrected.
He looked a little confused, but that smile never seemed to waiver, and he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle, friendly shake. “Pleased to meet you Sybil-Sarah,” he gently teased.
—chapter 10
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When Tom Bellasis met Sarah (pretending to be Lady Sybil)
She was very pretty, that could not be denied. Although “pretty” didn’t seem like the appropriate word. “Striking”, perhaps? “Surprising”, even? Yes…surprising was very appropriate. She certainly surprised him when she floated into the drawing room, adorned in blue silk and looking like a princess straight from the pages of Arabian Nights! He didn’t know what to expect when the Dowager Countess informed him that they were waiting for the youngest Crawley girl to join them before proceeding into the dining room, but it certainly wasn’t that! The fact that she was beautiful didn’t so much surprise him (both of her sisters were very lovely, as was their mother), but her beauty was different—unique, almost…fey-like.
His mother had told him stories that had been passed down to her from her Irish nanny; stories from her homeland about faeries and leprechauns who wove magic spells and played tricks on mortals. As a boy, visiting Drumgoole in the summers of his childhood, he was determined to find one of the fey-folk, as his mother called them; determined to capture one and ask for a wish. His searches naturally proved fruitless, but he always wondered how he would know if and when he ever came upon such a magical being.
Looking at Lady Sybil, watching her glide into that room, a lovely smile on her face just radiating like the sun as she stood before the entire room, beaming with pride in her strange and enchanting frock…
That was the perfect word. Yes, that was the word to describe Lady Sybil Crawley and his thoughts upon first seeing her: enchanting.
He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she smiled at everyone, and he swore his breath caught in his throat as she turned her eyes to Lord Grantham, who was standing just next to him and who he had been in deep conversation with before she had entered the room.
There was…just something so…pure, about that smile. Something so genuine and emotional and…well, beautiful, really. The way she looked at Lord Grantham, as if…she hadn’t seen him in a very long time! He even swore he saw a shimmer in her eyes, as if tears were forming. So beautiful…
--chapter 11
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When the two Toms met each other (sort of/almost!)
"Can I help you with something?"
He froze at the voice. His heart suddenly began to throb, to the point that it actually hurt! Tom lifted his hand and clutched his chest, wincing slightly, but the throb soon became a dull ache, and then finally began to fade altogether, just as quickly as it had started.
He peered into the shadows, trying to see where the voice was coming from. There was no one else standing inside from what he could see…but there was a pair of legs sticking out from under one of Lord Grantham’s motors.
"No…no, thank you," he murmured to the other man, his brow furrowed slightly with confusion. Had his ears misheard him? Or…had that been an Irish accent? The chauffeur I met briefly yesterday wasn’t Irish, he recalled. Who was this man?
"Are you sure?" the disembodied voice spoke again. He made a motion to pull himself out from under the car he was fixing, but Tom spoke before he could.
"No, thank you, it’s alright—I’m just here to retrieve my car," he explained. "The roadster," he added, in case the man needed to know which one he was taking. He didn’t want to cause a member of staff any panic.
The mechanic, or…whoever the Irishman was, had made another motion to pull himself out and up, but stopped halfway, his head still blocked beneath the motor.
Tom froze at the question, more so because…the voice sounded eerily strange and familiar to him. That’s only because he’s an Irishman and it’s reminding you of Ireland, that’s all! Yet why was his heart having a more difficult time in believing the reasons his head was giving him?
"I am…" he answered, and not believing that just because his father was a baronet that made him "superior" over another human being, he took a step forward and asked, "And your name?"
"Branson!" the man gritted, his voice sounding very frustrated.
That ache he had been feeling in his chest tightened once again. Branson…why, why did that name sound so familiar? Why did that name FEEL so familiar?
The mechanic—Branson—started to mutter something in a language that wasn’t English. And though Tom Bellasis spoke very little Irish, he did recognize a few words, including the curse Mr. Branson had just uttered.
"Are you alright?” he asked, taking a step towards the car Branson was hidden under. Was the man stuck?
"I’m fine!" he muttered in frustration. "Just…my sleeve," he explained. "It’s caught on something…"
—chapter 14
…AND LOTS MORE TO COME! Intimate conversations, garden strolls, pub meals, picture show outings, long country drives, political discussions, DANCING, HAND-HOLDING, KISSING, jealous chamber maids, evil plotting aristocrats, visits from the past, near misses, and the mother of all reunions! *collapse* Coming in 2014!
