Fic: Ellipses
Title: Ellipses
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Pairing: Sybil/Branson
Rating: K
Summary: Sybil has wondered about the words he was about to speak for what feels like forever. One hot summer night she comes to a conclusion.
A/N: Because there is nowhere near enough Sybil/Branson fic. I wrote this about 6 months ago when I had read literally every single S/B fic I could find. I thought I better post it before DA starts again tomorrow and makes it horribly AU.
This is also posted on ff.net here.
ELLIPSES
Part One
Her eyelids flickered, her feet tangling in clammy sheets, and she pulled the heavy braid of her hair away from her neck in an attempt to get a reprieve from the sweltering humidity. The heat of the day had intensified into a heaviness that was simply impossible to sleep through. It didn't really matter much to Sybil; it just made her sleeplessness more uncomfortable. She'd been staring at the same patch of the bed canopy above her head for what felt like days but could only have been a few hours, and despite the discomfort of the temperature, she had barely noticed her sweaty palms and damp bedclothes.
She only felt the grasp of strong fingers. Rough skin brushing against hers; surprising, gentle, and warm. She was almost positive that she was losing her mind. In fact, she would've known that was the case, if she could only forget the tingling sensation that had frozen her fingers the moment he had touched her.
Sybil wasn't a silly girl. She wasn't prone to inventing fantasies and dreaming of romances, despite what others may expect of her. Because she was enthusiastic, optimistic, and enjoyed getting embroiled in schemes and plots and adventures, people tended to think she was stupid and naive. She was cheerful and open by nature and she didn't see what was wrong with that. Being cynical didn't seem to make Mary happy, and Edith's bitterness certainly didn't endear her to anyone.
She just wasn't the sort of girl to lay awake at night and wonder what a glance here and a softly spoken word there meant. At least, she hadn't thought she was.
So he held her hand. He had been jubilant, they all had been. Gwen had embraced them both just moments before, throwing her arms around them in a daze of happiness, and she hadn't fretted and tossed and turned about that. No doubt if Gwen had remained with them, he'd have grasped her hand with the same firm grip... but Gwen had been there, hadn't she? Sybil distinctly remembered that she had been beaming at her friend's glowing face, thrilled that she had finally achieved her dream, when she had felt a hand brush hers, fingers tangling.
It wasn't like she'd never held the hand of a man before. She'd been led into dinner, she'd been helped down from automobiles and lifted from the seat of her horse, and she'd been escorted to the ballroom floor. Her skin had come into contact with the soft hands of the most eligible and handsome bachelors in all of England. So why was it that she was obsessing over the firm grip and strong fingers of a servant?
But he's not just a servant, is he?
She'd not held a hand like his before. Not skin to skin. She'd not felt calluses, and harshness. She'd not experienced the deliciousness of rough moving against smooth. The story of his life was written in the plains of his hands- hard working, strong, honest. And she couldn't stop thinking about them.
The gleaming bonnet of the car reflected his scowling face back at him as he polished. His frown deepened. He knew he should go to bed. His arms ached, his head pounded, and thoughts tumbled through his mind at an alarming rate, too fast for him to grasp any one and cling onto it.
Death and loss. Blood, honour, and duty. The war of other men. A pair of fine eyes sparkling enticingly. Words and images spiralled into the shining surface of the automobile and Branson found himself rubbing the polishing cloth furiously in an attempt to wipe away his confused thoughts.
He had been cleaning the car for going on two hours now and he was no closer to clearing his thoughts. He threw down his cloth and sighed. It was late and he had duties in the morning.
He stepped out into the night and closed his eyes, breathing deeply in what could almost be mistaken for the warm midnight breeze of Ireland. "Almost," he whispered to himself, smiling slightly as he thought of home. On a night like this in his home town, it would be anything but silent. The pubs would still be open, and patrons would spill onto the street, laughing and singing their troubles away long into the night. He preferred the quiet and solitude that his place at Downton afforded him. The Yorkshire countryside was beautiful, and the lack of smog alone made it superior to any of the big cities, in his opinion. It gave him space to think and to dream, to be his own man, despite the label of servant, a label that seemed less and less an obstacle as the days grew longer and the possibilities seemed endless.
He opened his eyes and they immediately travelled to the window of the big house that he somehow knew was hers. Before his thoughts could travel down corridors they had no business being down, he turned his back on the home of his master and walked briskly back to his cottage.
It wasn't until he had locked the door to his cottage behind him, pulled off the vest that was now covered in engine grease, and crawled on top of the cool sheets of his bed that he allowed himself to stop mentally reciting the parameters of a car engine (one of his favourite methods to avoid his mutinous thoughts).
He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply the heavy air, and awaited the thoughts that he knew would bombard him. It was only at night, in the safety of his own space with no one listening in, that he allowed his heart free reign. He wondered if she could sleep on a night like this. His mind conjured up an image of her of its own accord, clammy, twisting in her bed sheets, her legs tangled, and hair splayed across her pillow.
He groaned and planted his head face down into the bed. It was going to be a long night.
It was late, very late and she stared at the canopy of her bed. The house was still, the only time in the day when Downton itself seemed to rest. The wind whistled through the open window, a gentle sigh rustling the curtains.
What, Sybil wondered, did "I don't suppose..." mean? A trivial phrase by itself, nothing of note. It was the ellipse that followed that haunted her.
He'd been her friend, her confidante, the one person she could have a real, equal conversation with. But, she realised, wasn't it the same with Gwen or Anna? They were her friends too. But they weren't Branson.
With him, she laughed more and she laughed louder than necessary. She relaxed and yet found herself more than usually self-conscious. She found herself fiddling with her hair, and leaning towards him eagerly from the backseat. She often found her cheeks tired from smiling when she was around him. She often found her eyes drawn towards him as if magnetised.
She allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, that she wasn't the daughter of an Earl. She was the daughter of a farmer. She was a maid. Maybe she wouldn't be Sybil, maybe she would be Sarah. She would plait her own hair and mend her own clothes. She would work until her fingers were sore and spoke of her life, like his did. She would eat amongst family, her working family, where she would have no duty besides those of an employee. She could leave, she could go out into the world and do what she wanted for she would have no one to disappoint and nothing to lose.
And she would sit beside Branson, whose first name she would know and use freely, and eat with him and laugh with him. They would plot to change the world and if he should happen to turn to her, take her hand, look at her with those fiery blue eyes the colour of a bright spring day, and utter the words "I don't suppose..." she would hear the end of that sentence, the answer hidden in the ellipses, and maybe, despite relative poverty, work that left her bones weary, and rough, coarse clothing, maybe then she would be free.
When she realised what happened next in her fantasy, her eyes popped open, the soft smile melted from her face and she sat up abruptly.
A lady wasn't supposed to kiss a servant. Not even in her imagination.
Her feet hit the floor and she grabbed for her wardrobe. She pulled out the first frock that she put her hand to and yanked it over her head.
It might not have been sensible. It might have been the middle of the night and highly improper. But Sybil was not one for beating around the bush and leaving her thoughts and feelings unsaid.
She had to see him.
End of Part One
A/N: Part Two hasn't been written yet and I have a horrible track record. Please review- it not only encourages me to write more but reminds me that I need to.