“A bit of news”

This as yet incomplete Secret Santa fic for mosteyn is all I could manage to put together by the deadline because the last month of my life has been something of a dumpster fire. Nothing serious when I can convince myself to step away and see the larger picture, but just enough that I couldn’t get even this much done. Le sigh.

I hope to have the rest of this short little fic in the next couple of days, in the meantime, enjoy the start  …

Christmas Eve, 1926

Sybil stared at the door across the room from her as if trying to will it to open. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this nervous. It seemed silly to her that she was, but she couldn’t help it. What the doctor on the other side of that door would tell her would change her life, one way or another. This much she knew, so she just wanted to get on with things.

But she also wanted him to say, “Yes.”

So she waited.

Keep reading

HAPPY HOLIDAYS @sybbelle!  Here is PART 2 to your Christmas Royal Wedding (part 1 found here)

**images not mine

For @sybbelle, who requested a Christmas Royal Wedding (with a dash of bromance)–Here is PART 1!

**images not mine

In The Kitchen

S/T Secret Santa 2018 giftfic for @mimijag. Her request was :Show Era–Tom and Sybil meeting in the kitchen at Downton (and sexytimes ensue!). Up to the author on the “why” they’re meeting in the kitchen, as well as whether it takes place before or after they’re married.”

AO3   FF.net

Ever Thine, Ever Mine: Part 1

After weeks of feeling as though the universe has been conspiring against me, here is the first part of my Secret Santa story for the wonderful @bleulily who requested “A fantasy royalty AU, preferably with either fae or elves.  If the letters trope could fit in there, I would be the happiest. Lady Rose has an important role of some kind..” 

So, without further ado, here is a story about chance meetings and missed opportunities, of two ancient souls bound together over the course of 200 years from the ballrooms of Belgravia to the battlefields of northern France and beyond. True love will always find a way, even if you do have to wait a while.

(Oh and, to be continued)

Since the earliest years of his childhood, the boy had been enraptured by his father’s stories of the firstborn beings, the children of the stars who had walked the earth for millennia and beyond. They were the wisest and fairest of all living creatures, their warriors had fought beside some of history’s most legendary figures, kings and queens of old sought their counsel and their healers could cure even the most deadly of injuries and ailments.

But then mankind became selfish, greedy and somewhat fearful of those whom they had once looked upon as friends. They were hunted down and enslaved, and the very gifts they’d willingly shared used against them in the most terrible of ways.

Those who survived went into hiding, never to be seen again by those who had betrayed them. Centuries went by, their race became nothing but a myth and the stories of their great deeds spun into folklore.

These were the very tales that the boy had grown up with and that had captured his imagination. His brothers didn’t believe, dismissing the stories as nothing more than childish fairytales…

But he did, and tonight was the night that he would look upon the face of an Elf at last.

He waits until the house falls silent when he knows that there’s no chance of him being disturbed and sent straight back to bed. He dresses hastily and thrusts his feet into his boots before creeping down the stairs, through the kitchens and out into the night.

It’s bitterly cold and the freezing wind bites at his exposed skin, his teeth chattering as he runs down the garden path towards the woodlands at the bottom.  He knows that he’ll catch a chill, but it will all be worth it when he finally, finally gets his wish.

The boy stops when she reaches the trees, hesitating for the first time since he devised his plan. He glances over his shoulder, just long enough to make sure that he hasn’t been followed before stepping into the darkness. He keeps his footsteps light and his breathing steady as he inches his way forward. Eventually, the boy reaches the edge of a meadow and crouches down behind a bush, watching and waiting for what seems like an eternity.

They walk barefoot through the grass, each of them dressed in thin gossamer gowns of silver-grey despite the subzero temperatures and carrying the very light of the stars in their hands. This, the boy realises, is some kind of sacred ritual, a prayer to the old gods that was never meant to be witnessed by mankind. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the sight of them swirling and twirling about the clearing in a perfectly choreographed dance. He feels their energy coursing through his veins, awakening an ancient and powerful magic from somewhere deep in his heart.

He’ll understand one day but for now, he’s content to stay here in this moment, the memory of which will bring him comfort during even the darkest of his days.

The years went by and the boy grew into a handsome youth though clearly different from his brothers and not only in appearance. The elder three had their father’s deep brown eyes, yet his were the colour of a cloudless sky and he shared none of his mother’s features at all. There were whispers of course, for there would always be those who took joy in spreading malicious gossip around their village with the most popular theory being that his mother had been unfaithful to her husband and that he was the bastard son of an inferior merchant from the north. Like any great lady, however, she kept her head held high and refused to let the gossips get the better of her. It was an idyllic childhood, for the most part, growing up in a grand house by the sea on Ireland’s wild Atlantic coast, riding horses on the beach and flirting with pretty girls from the village…

But that all changed the day his father passed away.

Lying on his deathbed, Edward told his youngest son the truth about his mother, a woman not of their world but who had bewitched him body and soul. He wasn’t proud of his indiscretion, but the child born from it had given he and his wife so much joy and happiness nonetheless. Armed with this newfound knowledge, it would have been easy for the boy to leave in search of his mother and her people, but so full of love and respect for the woman who had raised him as her own was he that he decided to stay and work the land as his father and his father before him had done.

He could quite happily have gone on like this for the rest of his days, finding a wife and settling down but word soon spread beyond the confines of their little village that an unnatural child walked among them and whose mother had consorted with the devil.

They came for them in the middle of the night, armed and dangerous and with murder on their minds.

That was the night that he ran and never looked back, not even as the grand house by the sea on Ireland’s wild Atlantic coast burned to the ground.

The boy never stopped running, not for days or weeks, months or even years and the next thing he knew, two hundred years had passed by in the blink of an eye but not a moment went by where he didn’t think about the family he’d left behind and the sacrifices they’d made for him. The last thing he’d said to his mother was that he promised to make something of himself, to go on with his life and to do wonderful things with the gift that he’d been given. As the years went on, however, the gift of time had started to feel more of a curse and his fear of letting people in led to crippling loneliness that almost drove him to the brink of madness.

But then an invitation arrived and changed the course of his very long life forever.

London, December 1818

It wouldn’t have been a complete lie to say that he was the son of some very wealthy people, a great family with lands and titles, but British high society was very different to that of the long lost Irish clans. He’d left home with nothing but his beloved horse and the shirt on his back, yet somehow he’d managed to transform himself into a gentleman. It was all an act of course, but it meant that it was easy to flit from great house to great house, living off the good graces of others with few or no questions asked. He taught himself about art and history, ensured that he was well read and formed an opinion on politics, writing letters and selling stories to newspapers and other publications in order to make a meagre living. He was handsome, charming and a divine dancer which naturally made him a fine match in the eyes of every mother of daughters from Dorset to Dundee. He would never marry though, for it would be unfair to love someone so wholeheartedly whilst all the while knowing that whether by illness or the passage of time they would be so cruelly taken from him. That didn’t stop him from enjoying himself though, just as any young man would though he never once led any of them astray or filled them with false hope. Just as it had done with his mother all those years ago, the rumour mill began to churn with theories ranging from his having a wife and three delightful children back in Dublin to him preferring the company of other men.

Of course, the truth would be more shocking and scandalous than all of those combined were it ever to come out.

Shortly before Christmas, an invitation arrived from the Marquis of Flintshire requesting his presence at a ball in celebration of his daughter’s birthday. He wasn’t familiar with the MacClares, but all he managed to find out is that they were an English family with a Welsh title and lands in Scotland. There were two sons and a daughter, Rose, whom they’d no doubt fling at him the moment he set foot inside their house.

Still, it would be rude not to go.

The ball is the same as any other, the rooms stuffy and overcrowded with people whom he doesn’t really have much care for and, to be honest, he’s beginning to ask himself why he keeps on doing this. It was fine for a time, but the charade is beginning to lose its appeal.

He accepts a glass of wine from a passing footman and makes his way through the house, occasionally stopping to make polite conversation and offering his opinion on anything from the weather to the health of the King and the Prince Regent’s politics. It’s all so terribly mundane and monotonous that he’ll stay long enough so as not to be seen as impolite before leaving. He’s unsure where he’ll go, just as long as it’s somewhere quiet where he can sit in a chair by the fire with a book and some decent whiskey.

Fate, however, seems to have a different plan.

Alone at last, he stands in a corner surveying the room and there, at the edge of the dance floor, is the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his very long life. She wore a gown of the softest blue, a delicate coronet of silver in her dark hair and a smile brighter than the sun on a midsummer day. Her pale skin glows in the candlelight and, when she finally looks at him with eyes the colour of rain, that same deep and powerful magic he’d felt in the meadow all those years ago stirs up inside him and he knows that he is lost.

He smiles at her and her response is a pretty blush as she averts her gaze. The faces are largely the same at these sorts of gatherings with the guests being regular attendees of most social gatherings about town. Hers, however, is not one that he recognises and when he asks around, nobody else seems to know who she is either.

He desperately wants to introduce himself to her, but every other man in the room seems to have had the same idea. She and the two other astonishingly beautiful women whom he presumes to be her sisters are rarely off the dancefloor and even in the brief moments that they are, they’re engaged in conversation with handsome young bachelors undoubtedly more eligible than he could ever be.

Finally he gets his moment, but as he cuts his way across the room having plucked up the courage to ask her for a dance, Lady Rose MacLare appears before him.

“I believe your name is next on my dance card, Sir,” she says boldly.

He doesn’t recall ever asking her for a dance (or anyone else for that matter), but it would be considered rude to snub the daughter of his host and the birthday girl herself. He quickly looks up over her shoulder, noticing that the one woman he actually had wanted to dance with has already found herself another partner and realises that his moment has passed.

“I’m supposed to be the prize tonight yet your eyes have been fixed elsewhere since the moment you walked through those doors,” says Rose as he escorts her out onto the dancefloor. “Beautiful, isn’t she? All of the sisters are and considered royalty among our people. Did you know that her father fought beside King Arthur at the battle of Baden Hill? Her mother has Fae blood of course, a granddaughter of Queen Titania herself, but nobody really cares for that anymore.”

“I don’t follow, my lady.”

“I know who you are. Or rather, what you are,” she says.  “You’re older than you look, late twenties to the eye though I’d say somewhere around three-hundred, give or take a few years. It’s not a condition or an illness but rather a mere coincidence of birth. I’ve been longing to meet you, Tom Branson, though I’m not entirely sure that’s your real name.”

He’s stunned into silence, wondering how on earth this girl has managed to unearth his deepest darkest secret. He wants to lie about it, to tell her that he has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, but there’s a look in her eyes that makes him want to trust her.

“How did you know?” He asks quietly, spinning her around so that they move further away from the other dancers.

“I see all that once was and all that will be,” Rose tells him. “You were abandoned on your father’s doorstep in the middle of a storm with nothing, not even a name. Your father tried to hide the truth from you, but he couldn’t help but share the stories and you ended up having the same fascination that led him to your real mother.”

Tom shakes his head. “With respect, Lady Rose, my real mother raised me as her own. She gave her life to save mine and I’ll forever be in her debt. Another woman may have given birth to me, but I’ve no desire to find out who she is or was.”

Rose smiles at him. “As you wish,” she replies. “But she was there that night, the night you ran down to the meadow during the winter solstice… and so was I.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Isn’t it? Like you, I’m much older than I look. Even older than you in fact. My father is one of the firstborn, my mother human,” she tells him. “We’re not immortal, we just age much slower than the average man or woman. There aren’t many like you and I but there are even less of the firstborn for reasons I’m sure I don’t need to explain.”

“People don’t accept things that don’t fit into their narrow view of the world,”he replies, trying to banish the image of the burning house and the sound of the screams from his mind. “My father always told me that was the reason why the Elves disappeared in the first place.”

“They didn’t disappear,” Rose tells him. “They’re just harder to find. There are five great firstborn families left in this country of which my fathers is one of them. We’ve been searching for as many of our kind as we can find, both pure and half-blood… you needn’t be alone, not anymore.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yes, you are. I can see it in your eyes,” she replies. “Everyone needs at least one friend, especially ancient souls like us.”

He ponders her offer for a moment, quickly realising that perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to have a few close companions who understood his peculiar existence. He wouldn’t need to lie, to pretend to be something that he wasn’t and perhaps he could even find the answers to questions he’d been asking for so very long.

One of which seems more important than any other at this particular moment.

“Then, as a friend, would you tell me her name?”

Rose shakes her head and smiles at him somewhat mischievously. “No… that you have to figure out for yourself. And you will, one day, you just need to have patience and give it time. I know, I’ve seen it.”

“Oh, believe me,” Tom replies. “Time is the one thing I have in abundance… and I’d wait forever if I had to.”  

Merry Christmas Syblime!!! I’m your Secret Santa! I hope you’ll like this piece. It was challenging to meet with all your specifics but it was fun. Thank you to @skinnycat77​ for the beta. And Happy New Year 20149 to the whole Tom/Sybil fandom.x

Prompt : Show Era–“Sybil’s naughty nightie” - When she is packing to go to York she folds up a very sheer looking garment! How did she get it? Why was she packing it? And what is Tom’s reaction? (I would love him to catch sight somehow in York, but that might be unrealistic, so whenever the author likes)

The Naughty Nightie

Sybil closed the door behind her sisters. She has asked for a few minutes alone in her bedroom before leaving for her training in York. She wanted to enjoy some solitude but most of all she needed to add a special item in her suitcase before William came up to put it down in the car.

She giggled thinking of it remembering how she teased poor Branson with it.

(more)

A/N: This is a secret santa gift for @cassiemortmain for the 2018 S/T Secret Santa Exchange. This fic mostly follows the 2x04 timeline. Sorry it took so long.

STORY REQUEST: Show Era-something romantic, secret and sexy would be perfect - secret (mutual?) crush, secret affair, secret engagement/marriage, etc are all good. Nothing too angsty; a bit of drama with perhaps a dash of jealousy is fine, but ultimately a happy ending. Set at Downton before Tom and Sybil have children.

In the Dark

“We better hurry, love,” said Tom, before he leaned in to bestow a kiss on Sybil’s nape after he had helped her button the blouse at the back. “We need to return to Downton before the dressing gong, which is in less than an hour.” The sun had already set.

“I’m hurrying,” replied Sybil, fumbling with the clasp of the chain that held her claddagh ring. Glancing at her husband of six months, she asked, “Can you help? I’m butter-fingered today.”

Tom put on the cap of his chauffeur uniform as the finishing touch before he reached out to take the chain from her. They had married secretly in a civil ceremony in Leeds, mere weeks after her 21st birthday last year.

In a rare opportunity, they did not have to fumble in the dark or by the light of a single candle. Their lovemaking had been somewhat frantic at first since Sybil had not been able to slip down to the chauffeur’s cottage in two weeks due to her duties at both the convalescent and the regular hospital, but she had been able to trade for three French letters from the wounded and convalescing soldiers for this quick getaway. In the end, they used two.

“It’s on,” said Tom, his fingers lightly tracing her neck after he fastened the clasp. “Are you ready?”

After a quick sweep of the room with her eyes, Sybil nodded, while she tucked the chain and ring inside her blouse. “Yes, let’s go.”

Read More

Scandal on Eaton Square

A Modern AU take on ‘Scandal on Eaton Square’

Merry Christmas to the lovely @yankeecountess - here is your second present!  (and I know I am one of many who hopes to read more of your fantastic story in 2019).

Gwen grinned and darted over to one of the kitchen counters, retrieving a folded piece of paper that Sybil hadn’t noticed before. She handed it over to Sybil without a word. Sybil scanned it, recognizing the name of one of the local pubs across the top.

“Christmas Eve Karaoke Night! Come and join us for a night of drinks and songs, from new hits to old favorites. All abilities welcome!” There were more details underneath, the time of the event among them, but Sybil didn’t bother to read them as she looked up at Gwen with dismay on her face.

“Karaoke? Gwen, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not? It’ll be a laugh, Sybil, come on!”

“It will be an utter disaster. A bunch of lonely people who don’t have anyplace better to be on Christmas Eve than the pub. And they’ll be singing.”

“Come on, you said you didn’t want the same old Christmas as every year…”

Merry Christmas, @zip-goes-a-million! I’m so very sorry that this took so long (so many technical issues!) but I hope that you like it and it was worth the long wait! Here is the link to your story, The Best Way to Spread Christmas Cheer!

S/T Anne of Green Gables au for @scathach124

S/T Fae au for @scathach124

Happy New Year to all the Sybil & Tom shippers out there! Here’s the second part of my Secret Santa gift to @thebarefootflapper​ (here’s a link to the first part). I hope you’ve had a lovely holiday season and lots of love for 2019!

To @magfreak Merry Christmas!! I hope you have a wonderful holiday and I hope this present fits all your requested 🎄🎁🎄🎁🎄

She was going to kill Edith when they finally got back to Downton.

Perhaps she’d kill Edith and burry the body in the backyard with the help of Thomas…or Mary. Either way, Sybil would make it look like an accident; and if she got caught she’d simply plead insanity because who wouldn’t go senile trapped within the four walls of an old run down hotel that the owners had the gall to label as ‘rustic chic’ thanks to the New York blizzard that meant they were now snowed in…. trapped in the misery of an American Christmas. Sybil’s stomach rumbled at the mere thought of Mrs Patmore’s Christmas pudding she was missing out on or the melt in your mouth shortbread cookies cut out in the shape of Christmas trees and Santa Clauses. Even Granny went wild around this time of year and endeavoured to bake her infamous Yorkshire pudding, showing a very rare domestic side to the Dowager Countess that always put a smile on her father’s face.  

But was Sybil enjoying the yuletide festivities of Downton; she could just picture it now. Her mother would be in a heated debate with Mrs Hughes over where the best place was for the exuberant Christmas tree; only to end up in the same place it always did, in the saloon for every guest to enjoy. Once that was ticked off her list, Mrs Hughes would be running around like mad trying to arrange the decorations that would adorn the rest of the estate; while Carson stomped around Downton like the Grinch who would steal Christmas if only she’d let him.

“Are you still moping?” Edith sighed, cautiously sliding onto the old barstool beside her little sister before waving the bartender over. Her Grandmother’s lessons in poise and propriety never left forgotten, she kindly asked for a glass of sparking wine; because women should never be seen drinking ‘the hard stuff’ as Granny would put it. But then Sybil was never much for rules and decorum if the amber liquid she continued to swirl inside the tumbler glass was any indication. Granny was certain that Sybil was determined to send her completely mad or completely grey before she died.

Slumped over the bar with her head in her hand Sybil scorned at Edith, “my mouth is watering just thinking about the smell of the kitchen back home right now, the smell of Mrs Patmore’s mince pies baking away in the oven while she chases Daisy around with a wooden spoon because the poor girl’s mixed up the measurements for the ginger bread house yet AGAIN.”

Sybil choose to ignore the snort she heard down the other end of the deserted bar; she really couldn’t care less about the opinion of a stranger she was never to cross paths with again…let alone a stranger who willing chose to stay in a place like this. The walls were cracked and the paint was peeling from a lack of attention over the years, while there was a distinct odour that carried throughout all the hallways but Sybil wasn’t game enough to ask anyone what it was. The bed was harder than a slab of concrete and there was a kink in her neck after a night’s sleep that she couldn’t get rid of; the thought of that bed taunting her above only reminded her of her own bed back home.

Damn Edith and damn this snow storm. They were only meant to be in New York for four days; a ‘girl’s weekend’ as Edith had put it when she asked Sybil to accompany her on her trip to visit her editor of the New York Times. They were meant to be on a plane and halfway across the Atlantic Ocean by now, but Sybil should’ve known better considering it’s well known amongst the family that Edith is a notoriously bad planner. She didn’t think there would be much harm in catching up with Sir Herbert Pelham for a quick drink down in Soho in the middle of winter two days before Christmas despite having to be at JFK Airport by 3pm…because who never heard about New York traffic. Sybil couldn’t help but roll her eyes yet again at her sister’s stupidity. They were never going to make it to the airport in time thanks to Edith’s ‘quick drink’ turning into a ‘late lunch’.

Maybe she should’ve just caught that cab to the airport without her sister Sybil thought to herself as she twirled her empty tumbler around the wooden bar top. But then how would she have explained that to her mother and father when she pulled up to the driveway by herself? How would she explain to them both that she was forced to abandon her sister in the great big concrete jungle of New York City because her sister had seriously underestimated traffic in order to meet a boy?

Taking a dainty sip of her flute glass Edith gently placed the glass down before running her fingernails over the cracked crevices of the old weathered bar. “I get it ok. You’re terribly angry at me, and you have every right to be. We’re stuck in the ‘Americas’ as Great Uncle Edward refers to it rather than being home for Christmas; and it doesn’t matter how much money one has it’ll never be enough to buy mother nature or sold out hotel rooms. Who knew that all the quality hotels would be booked solid on Christmas Eve” Edith laughed awkwardly, hoping that a bit of self-deprecating humour might score brownie points with Sybil.

“Geez who would’ve thought it” Sybil snorted with contempt, she couldn’t help it. She knew she was being childish; but Sybil wanted to cross her harms and stomp her feet as she cursed every man and his dog for being snowed in for Christmas. Sybil was one hairsbreadth away from a full blown tantrum. All she needed was for one more thing to go wrong, and Sybil knew without a doubt she’d be on the floor kicking and screaming like George did last Christmas when Mary refused to let him have another Christmas cookie; which she felt was completely justified on her nephew’s part…they were incredibly delicious cookies damn it.

Running her finger up and down the glass Edith looked like a fish out of water, opening and closing her mouth as she struggled to find the right words that wouldn’t result in her head getting bitten off. “I have an idea…” she hesitated.

“Oh splendid, and will this ‘brilliant’ idea have us stuck here for New Years Eve too” Sybil snapped, instantly regretting her acidic tone. She knew that her sister was only trying to make the best of a bad situation, but considering the year she’d had Sybil had really been looking forward to being home for Christmas. Who knew that one seemingly innocent trip would send her into d downward spiral.

“I don’t know how many times I have to say I’m sorry Sybil” Edith snipped as she slid off her chair, placing a $10 bill under the glass. “Edith Crawley screws up once again; surprise, surprise!” she cried derisively as she threw hands up in the air, scurrying towards the entrance hall in an eager quest to escape.

Sybil watched her sister storm out of the hotel into the freezing cold with nothing but a sheer cardigan to keep her warm. She knew she’d have to run after her soon with a coat and scarf as a peace offering, but the mocking snort she heard coming once again from the other end of the bar caught her attention. The man sitting at the end of the bar was a striking man grinning at her like he was short of a quid or two; yet there was something striking about the glint in his eyes. He quickly downed the rest of his drink before ordering two more from the bartender; pointing his finger at Sybil before making his way towards her. Sybil was subconsciously captivated by an obvious charm that he no doubt had, but there was something about the way he walked that suggested he wasn’t all too aware of just how attractive he was. And in Sybil’s eyes that made him even far more dangerous than the Larry Grey’s of the world.

“Seems like someone isn’t having a good run of it today” he observed with a brogue Irish accent that had Sybil biting down on her lip in a futile attempt to stop herself from groaning out loud. Sybil Crawley had always been a sucker for an Irish accent; there was something lyrical about a way a man could talk despite Mary’s jesting that it was more to do with the attraction of ‘slumming it’ with the lower class that Sybil knew would press her father and Granny’s buttons.

She took a deep breath as the bartender slid another glass of scotch towards Sybil; downing the amber liquid in a single gulp. She was about as undignified and unrefined as she could get right now; and if her grandmother could only see for herself. Sybil scoffed at the thought; Granny detested the fact that Robert and Sybil would always share a glass of single malt scotch after dinner while the other ladies insisted on a glass of sherry or a cup of tea. Granny always felt the need to point out to Sybil that men of wealth and stature were in want of a wife with propriety. As far as Sybil was concerned those men could go and stick their propriety up where the sun doesn’t shine.

“Look I’m really not in the mood at the moment, so if you don’t mind please leave me alone” said Sybil tersely; hoping that her prickly personality would send the poor sod running in the opposite direction.

“Fair enough” he held his hands up in surrender. “I couldn’t help over hearing your conversation and I was just going to say…”

Sybil slammed her glass down onto the bar, essentially cutting the cute Irishman off. “You were what huh? You were going to tell me how sorry you are to hear that I’m stranded on the other side of the world from my family at Christmas; then what? Then you’d try and offer to buy me another drink, console me in my hour in need. But here’s the thing, I’m not like the rest of your lot here. I didn’t choose to slum it in this dingy old hotel on Christmas Eve because I had nothing better to do.”

His nostrils flared at her unexpected outburst, his jaw clenching as he griped the glass tumbler tighter then was necessary. Damn it why does he have look so good pissed off? Sybil thought to herself, and like a balloon being popped she felt all the hot air deflate out of her.  

Rising from his chair the poor bloke bowed before her, swiping his hand across the room. “Well my Lady I’m terrible sorry, it was my mistake for thinking that the Brits had moved on from their Imperialistic notions of aristocracy; but it would seem that some of you have yet to join the rest of us in the twenty first century” he seethed before storming off towards the exit.

Sybil was stunned by his retort, rendered speechless by his emboldened and impassioned speech that reminded her of a man who was no stranger to assumptions and stereotypes; but before she could call out some fleeting apology the man turned on his heels and marched back towards her.

“And for the record, although it isn’t any of your business, I should be half way back to Ireland by now. Instead I’m stuck here talking to a seemingly innocent woman who is in fact nothing more than a snob who sees herself as being above everyone else.” His chest heaving as he struggled to catch a breath; Sybil cursed her own mind because she couldn’t help but wonder what other activities would get him as breathless.

Behave woman! Get control of yourself! And since when are you your grandmother? You’re the one always preaching about equality and acceptance to the Dowager, so why the hell are you being a right royal cow?

“I’m sorry” the words got caught in her throat as she tentatively reached out to take hold of the man’s bare wrist; choosing to ignore the spark she felt tingling down her spine at the mere touch. “I was a complete cow and it was uncalled for, I’m just…I’m just not coping very well. I’m not trying to make excuses, but it’s been a really crappy year so I was hoping Christmas would help. But I guess that was my mistake, I shouldn’t be so surprised that a crappy year ends with a crappy Christmas.”

His shoulders slumped and Sybil’s mouth quivered a little, offering a brief smile at the handsome stranger as she held her hand out; “I’m Sybil Crawley” she introduced herself.

Taking her hand into his he couldn’t help but notice how smooth and soft her porcelain skin was; or the way her eyes shone with relief at his forgiveness. “Branson. Tom Branson.”

Gesturing towards the empty seat beside her Sybil order another round of drinks and asked if there was any chance that the kitchen was still open. She couldn’t help but groan in relief at the news that the chef was closing up for the night, but he could still fry off some chilli cheese fries if she wanted.

An awkward silence sat heavily between the two strangers; Sybil was at a loss for words and that was more disconcerting to her than anything else because she always knew what to say. But there was something about Tom, something that threw her off and rendered her speechless or completely defenceless. Either way, it was a feeling she wasn’t used to.

“So what brings you to this neck of the woods?” she tried to joke, but it fell flat based on the stoic look on his face. She laughed awkwardly to try and break some of the tension only it came out more as a gurgled snort.

Tom took pity on the beautiful Brit and smiled apologetically; “I’m here on business. I was supposed to fly home for Christmas, but alas mother nature decided that it was not to be.”

Nodding her head in sympathy Sybil took a sip of her drink to try and clear the sudden frog in her throat. “What is it that you do for work exactly?” she asked with genuine curiosity. Sybil prided herself on being able to read people well; to understand what made them tick, but with Tom she was self-conscious around him.

Tom couldn’t help by smirk at the seemingly innocent question, “what is it you think I do?”

Sybil couldn’t help it; a burst of laughter erupted from within as she threw her head back and laughed. “There is no way I can answer that question without offending you in some way” she giggled, “or be accused of being a British Imperialist who is intent on continuing to subjugate the Irish” she teased with mirth in her eyes.

Shaking his head with a smirk Tom couldn’t get over the amazing sound of her laugh, the lyrical music that just made him want to break out in a Cheshire grin. “I promise there will be no more accusations” he crossed his heart then offered his pinkie to her in a rather juvenile attempt to lighten the mood.

She side eyed him for a second before taking him up on his offer, pinkie swearing as though they were eight year olds out on the school playground; promising not to dob on one another when they finally got caught.

“Well let’s see…” Sybil hummed as she drummed against the bench top. “You seem to have an understanding of the political and social history between England and Ireland, which means you’ve either undergone tertiary education on the subject or you like a bit of light reading on the subject matter.”

“Fancy yourself a bit of a detective Ms Holmes” Tom teased, winking at her blush that was quickly creeping down her neck. “Does that make me your Watson?”

Nearly choking on her drink Sybil spluttered across the bar, this man was well versed in literary and political subjects. Definitely an educated man. “If I remember correctly Watson tolerated Holmes’ eccentricities…”

Quirking an eyebrow at Sybil, Tom nodded his head in agreement; “well it’s only fair. There are some people in the world who just can’t see beyond the end of their own nose.”

It was as though they were caught up in a staring competition, waiting to see who would crack first; only to end up calling a truce in which they both laughed manically at their own stupidity.

“Ok I clearly suck at this. So I give up…what is that you do?” Sybil asked, pinching one of the scolding fries that was placed before them only a minutes ago.

Tugging on his royal blue suit jacket and straightening his shoulders Tom smiled with pride; “university lecturer…Professor of Modern Political thought; I deal mostly with political theorists like Marx, Foucault, Habermas.”

Dipping her fries in extra sauce Sybil chewed on that information for a minute or two. It seemed that Tom was a mystery wrapped up in what would appear to be Ralph Lauren. “So do you have the tweed jacket and Clark Kent glasses to go with the title?” she asked jokingly, yet the sexy smirk Tom shot at her sent warning bells off.

“Well now that you ask?” he drawled, reaching into his suit pocket only to pull a pair think black rimmed reading glasses.

Sybil scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief as he put them on. Damn it the man needed to come with a warning label. She wasn’t one to drool over a man, let alone become tongue tied. But there was something about him…something that made her heart speed up and her palms sweat. “Seriously? This is a joke right…something that you and my sister Edith cooked up together?”

Reaching out for a fry of his own Sybil couldn’t help herself, playfully smacking his hand away. “Get your own mister. I don’t share food.” She teased, popping another fry into her mouth a smug smile.

“So that’s how it’s going to be” Tom laughed, shaking his head. “You really are something Lady Crawley.”

Sybil could feel her cheeks warming as she bowed her head, a compliment from Tom felt like the most precious thing in the world. Pushing the plate towards him as a gesture of good will Sybil rested her chin in her hand; sighing gently at how a crappy day suddenly turned into a pretty good night.

“And what is that you do for a living?” Tom chomped away at the fries, “besides handing out insults for free.”

Twirling a piece of hair around her finger Sybil gnawed at her lip, a sudden urge to kiss the complete stranger had taken over. “I’m a paediatric nurse back home in London; but I’ve just sat my BMAT test, so I should be getting my results in February. If all goes well then I can begin medical school.”

“Wow” Tom whistled, he was thoroughly impressed. “Brains and beauty; you really are an incredible woman” he raved without even thinking. His ears burning bright red from embarrassment once he realised what he’d said.

“So Ireland. What’s it like growing up in the rolling hills?” She asked, trying to play down the comment.

“There aren’t much hills in Dublin” Tom answered as his phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling the iPhone out of his pocket he couldn’t help but smile at the photo of Santa’s little helper; aka Gwen and John’s little girl Adeline.

“Something funny?” asked Sybil, gnawing at another chip to help try and distract herself from the sudden surge of jealousy coursing through her.

“My friend, Gwen, we’ve been best friends since we were little. She just sent me this photo of her little girl Adeline” Tom explained, turning his phone towards Sybil.

She couldn’t help but awe at the beautiful little baby with deep blue eyes and bright red hair; sitting on Santa’s lap with a candy cane in her mouth, wearing a little elf outfit. “She’s adorable” Sybil replied, staring longingly at the photo. She knew if her plans for medical school went through it would be years before she could even think about settling down, let alone think about having a baby. But she wasn’t so stubborn that she couldn’t admit there was a small ache at the way George lit up whenever Mary walked into a room; or the way he runs towards Matthew as fast as his little legs would take him.

“She’s absolutely adorable” Sybil sighed, reaching out towards the device to get a better look.

“Do you come from a big family?” Tom asked with fascination, he wanted to know everything he could possibly know about her.

“Depends on what you consider big. I have two older sisters; Mary and Edith. Mary is married to a barrister, Matthew and they have a three-year-old son George. There’s my Grandmother Violet, who is the Dowager Countess…”

“A bloody dowager?” Tom interrupts aghast, “you Brits and your titles. So that would make your father…” he drawled, waiting for Sybil to fill in the blank.

“My father is the Earl of Grantham, or Lord Grantham, and my mother is the Countess” explained in a matter of fact. The titles were always bells and whistles to Sybil, they never really held much importance to her despite her grandmother’s frustration with her devil may come attitude to their family title.

“Geez Louise, and here’s little old me proud as punch with my title of Professor” Tom scoffed tugging away at his shirt collar; has the room gotten hot all of a sudden?  

Tentatively reaching across the bar Sybil took hold of Tom’s hand with a gentle squeeze; a silent gesture of comfort. “I’ve always much preferred Professors to Lords and Earls” Sybil whispered softly as if this was a secret that must be kept between the two of them.

Before Sybil even had a chance to pull away Tom threaded their fingers together; holding on tightly as he leant across the bar. “Well I guess it’s a good thing that you go for nerdy chic instead of sexy rich” he whispered softly, his hot breath caressing her cheek.

Sybil’s could hear the blood rushing in her ears, feel her heart pounding in her chest. “I’ve always thought of your kind more as the sexy nerds.”

Pulling on Sybil’s hand he couldn’t help but notice a bit of chilli sauce right on the corner of her mouth; and something embolden took over. Tom has never been this forward with a woman before as he leant across and kissed her.

Sybil had always been that girl who rolled her eyes at every rom-com or chick-flick, never really buying into the sappy love scenes. But in that brief moment it felt as if time had come to a complete stop; that they were the only two people in the whole room and nothing could have ruined the perfect moment. He certainly knew how to kiss, and Sybil was only to eager to figure out what other talents lay beneath the surface.

“You had a bit of sauce right there” Tom whispered pointing to the corner of her mouth. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the stunned look on her face, he hadn’t set out to kiss her…at least not from the get go. But by the end, Tom knew he had to take a chance because he may very well never get to see this beautiful creature sitting beside him ever again.

The soft rhythm of a jazz rendition of “Dreaming of a White Christmas” echoed throughout the bar, comforting the few hotel guests who refuse to return to their lonely and cold hotel rooms. But sitting beside Tom she felt anything but cold and lonely; instead she felt warm and excited…adrenaline buzzing through her veins.

“Well I guess it’s a very Merry Christmas for the both of us” Sybil retorted, yanking on Tom’s shirt as their mouths clashed together; duelling against one another in heated game of cat and mouse. Neither them could have cared less who took the lead, or who called the shots; because at the end of the day they knew that they both won. Only this was a Christmas gift with a no refund policy, terms and conditions which they were both very happy to bare the cost of.

This is my S/T Secret Santa gift for @broadwaybaggins.  In this photo set, Sybil and Tom are students at Hogwarts.  Sybil is a Hufflepuff, while Tom is a Gryffindor.  Together, the two of them complete their magical education with the goal of making the world a better place for both wizards and Muggles.  A little romance develops along the way.