Sybil/Branson: Bambrack
Title: Bambrack
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sybil/Branson
Summary: It's Branson's birthday
Notes: Set around 1915. Also mild doses of fluff and angst
Branson bit gently into the sweet dough and had to stop himself from moaning in pleasure. The sultanas burst in his mouth, and all at once he was ten years old again and by the fire next to his Father. Bambrack with soft salty butter-- that was the memory of his birthday, which happened to fall on Halloween, and how his Mother would always bake him some bambrack after cooking him some skirts and kidneys and champ.
It wasn't quite the same as his Mother's, though nothing ever could be, that was one of the enchantments of childhood. And this was the cold, lonely garage of Downton Abbey was never going to be the cramped house of his youth with its splintered floor boards and thick, foggy glass windows. He tried to remember the last birthday he'd had where she'd been lucid, but couldn't. The last birthday with Jimmy he had been twenty. His Father, fourteen. All in all he'd spent two birthdays here on his own, eating bambrack wrapped in greaseproof paper that his sister-in-law and niece had made.
"Branson?"
He was shocked at how much her voice could still startle him. He turned around, wiping the crumbs from his mouth and trying to swallow his latest mouthful.
She laughed. "I'm sorry, did I disturb you?"
"No, it's--"
She moved forward. "What is it?"
"Báirín Breac." He said, and smiled a little at her confused expression. One day he would teach her Gaelic, he resolved. "Bambrack bread."
"It looks like tea-bread."
"Do you want some?" He said, holding it out. She inwardly smiled at his lack of decorum, the simple gesture of holding out food. She could just see Carson pale at Branson offering a lady a piece of food (which he was eating!) without even bothering with a plate or fork. It probably defied centuries of tradition, everything she had been brought up to believe, but it made her stupidly happy nonetheless. She ripped off a piece. She ate it delicately, with trepadation, in contrast to his ripping it liberally with his teeth, so homesick was he.
"It's sweet, but not too sweet." She said, before grimacing. "What on Earth?"
"Oh." He laughed. "You got the pea."
Her eyebrows knotted. "What? A pea?"
"It's a tradition, like fortune telling." He said. "It means you won't marry within the year."
She gave him a withering look. "Well I could have told you that." She paused. "Did you make it?"
He chortled. "Nah, I'm terrible at making bread. I can make a mean boxty, though."
"Then who did?"
"My sister-in-law and niece, most likely. Though Aunt Christine was probably there too, telling them they were doing it all wrong." He smiled a little at the scenario.
"You don't talk about them much."
"Hm?"
"Your family."
"You've never asked."
"I thought it...rude, somehow."
He wilted a little. He knew so much about the Crawleys, as did all the servants. Their lives ran parallel but never equal. He could probably tell you who Mary had been flirting with you at dinner with the other week, Edith's latest dress fiasco, and he was fairly sure he knew a great deal about Sybil. But how many of them knew where their servants, the ones who shared in their lives so intimately, grew up? Did they know their dreams, their frustrations, their faults? Sybil tried, but there was only so much you could do to bridge over two lives like theirs'.
In the corners of his dreams he imagined taking her to Dublin, to the Rotundo to hear the political speeches where his Father had taken him to as a boy, to The Drunken Sailor pub to dance and to meet his family. He wanted to show her the veins that run through his city, the places of his memories: the fog curling in from Dublin Bay, Faithfull Place where he grew up with its slick cobbled streets and crumbling tenements. He'd show her the places where he and his brother played hide and seek, take her for a walk along Grattan Bridge when the sky was starry, and to Carnegie Free Library where he'd spent so many afternoons dreaming away.
But he couldn't shake the feeling it'd never happen. That his Dublin, their Dublin, would never happen. Where in the world could ever be theirs'? Not here. They created small spaces, but they were never big enough for what he felt, for what he was sure she felt.
She must have noted the change in his mood, so she brought herself a little closer.
"They must love you all very much." She said, her voice lower as she took another piece of the bread. "To make you something like this. God knows no one has ever made me a present in my life."
"Well, it is my birthday."
Her eyes widened.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"What did you think? You never asked. Servants don't just turn up without families or birthdays or pasts, you know."
She flushed and looked nervously to the floor, a mannerism of hers' he knew so well.
"I'm sorry." He said quietly. He dug his hands in his pockets and started to pace, before turning around."I just--" He looked at her face, the panic and fear running through his eyes, and stopped himself. This wasn't her fault. The truth was it was no one's fault.
She had to go all the way to Ripon Library to find it. "The Food of Ireland". She got "Customs of the Irish Peoples" as well, just to be careful.
She knew where to get a key to Branson's cottage. She went to the stationers and assembled colorful paper chains. She went to the sweet shop and ordered hard-boiled sweets of every colour, what seemed like endless lengths of liquorice, chocolate creams and Turkish delights.
He was out for all the day so she got to work cooking boxty, soda bread and stew, followed by a chocolate cake with green buttercream icing. The smells filled the cottage and Sybil found herself getting giddier with each passing hour, anxious for him to come home. It was an odd feeling, something that made her skin itch. She wanted to see his face, to see his smile when he saw his cottage, saw her.
Her hair was a mess, her cheeks white with flour, and she was fairly sure the smell of onions on her fingers would never wash off when he walked in an hour early. But at that point she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Because at once he saw their future- him coming home to her. And she looked totally unlike she ever had before: messy and imperfect, but more real and Earthly than ever, not the glass angel in an evening dress. And all at once they were in their small flat, wherever the hell they'd end up, and she was there to greet him. The future stretched out before him, bright, beautiful, possible.
"Happy birthday, Branson."
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sybil/Branson
Summary: It's Branson's birthday
Notes: Set around 1915. Also mild doses of fluff and angst
Branson bit gently into the sweet dough and had to stop himself from moaning in pleasure. The sultanas burst in his mouth, and all at once he was ten years old again and by the fire next to his Father. Bambrack with soft salty butter-- that was the memory of his birthday, which happened to fall on Halloween, and how his Mother would always bake him some bambrack after cooking him some skirts and kidneys and champ.
It wasn't quite the same as his Mother's, though nothing ever could be, that was one of the enchantments of childhood. And this was the cold, lonely garage of Downton Abbey was never going to be the cramped house of his youth with its splintered floor boards and thick, foggy glass windows. He tried to remember the last birthday he'd had where she'd been lucid, but couldn't. The last birthday with Jimmy he had been twenty. His Father, fourteen. All in all he'd spent two birthdays here on his own, eating bambrack wrapped in greaseproof paper that his sister-in-law and niece had made.
"Branson?"
He was shocked at how much her voice could still startle him. He turned around, wiping the crumbs from his mouth and trying to swallow his latest mouthful.
She laughed. "I'm sorry, did I disturb you?"
"No, it's--"
She moved forward. "What is it?"
"Báirín Breac." He said, and smiled a little at her confused expression. One day he would teach her Gaelic, he resolved. "Bambrack bread."
"It looks like tea-bread."
"Do you want some?" He said, holding it out. She inwardly smiled at his lack of decorum, the simple gesture of holding out food. She could just see Carson pale at Branson offering a lady a piece of food (which he was eating!) without even bothering with a plate or fork. It probably defied centuries of tradition, everything she had been brought up to believe, but it made her stupidly happy nonetheless. She ripped off a piece. She ate it delicately, with trepadation, in contrast to his ripping it liberally with his teeth, so homesick was he.
"It's sweet, but not too sweet." She said, before grimacing. "What on Earth?"
"Oh." He laughed. "You got the pea."
Her eyebrows knotted. "What? A pea?"
"It's a tradition, like fortune telling." He said. "It means you won't marry within the year."
She gave him a withering look. "Well I could have told you that." She paused. "Did you make it?"
He chortled. "Nah, I'm terrible at making bread. I can make a mean boxty, though."
"Then who did?"
"My sister-in-law and niece, most likely. Though Aunt Christine was probably there too, telling them they were doing it all wrong." He smiled a little at the scenario.
"You don't talk about them much."
"Hm?"
"Your family."
"You've never asked."
"I thought it...rude, somehow."
He wilted a little. He knew so much about the Crawleys, as did all the servants. Their lives ran parallel but never equal. He could probably tell you who Mary had been flirting with you at dinner with the other week, Edith's latest dress fiasco, and he was fairly sure he knew a great deal about Sybil. But how many of them knew where their servants, the ones who shared in their lives so intimately, grew up? Did they know their dreams, their frustrations, their faults? Sybil tried, but there was only so much you could do to bridge over two lives like theirs'.
In the corners of his dreams he imagined taking her to Dublin, to the Rotundo to hear the political speeches where his Father had taken him to as a boy, to The Drunken Sailor pub to dance and to meet his family. He wanted to show her the veins that run through his city, the places of his memories: the fog curling in from Dublin Bay, Faithfull Place where he grew up with its slick cobbled streets and crumbling tenements. He'd show her the places where he and his brother played hide and seek, take her for a walk along Grattan Bridge when the sky was starry, and to Carnegie Free Library where he'd spent so many afternoons dreaming away.
But he couldn't shake the feeling it'd never happen. That his Dublin, their Dublin, would never happen. Where in the world could ever be theirs'? Not here. They created small spaces, but they were never big enough for what he felt, for what he was sure she felt.
She must have noted the change in his mood, so she brought herself a little closer.
"They must love you all very much." She said, her voice lower as she took another piece of the bread. "To make you something like this. God knows no one has ever made me a present in my life."
"Well, it is my birthday."
Her eyes widened.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"What did you think? You never asked. Servants don't just turn up without families or birthdays or pasts, you know."
She flushed and looked nervously to the floor, a mannerism of hers' he knew so well.
"I'm sorry." He said quietly. He dug his hands in his pockets and started to pace, before turning around."I just--" He looked at her face, the panic and fear running through his eyes, and stopped himself. This wasn't her fault. The truth was it was no one's fault.
She had to go all the way to Ripon Library to find it. "The Food of Ireland". She got "Customs of the Irish Peoples" as well, just to be careful.
She knew where to get a key to Branson's cottage. She went to the stationers and assembled colorful paper chains. She went to the sweet shop and ordered hard-boiled sweets of every colour, what seemed like endless lengths of liquorice, chocolate creams and Turkish delights.
He was out for all the day so she got to work cooking boxty, soda bread and stew, followed by a chocolate cake with green buttercream icing. The smells filled the cottage and Sybil found herself getting giddier with each passing hour, anxious for him to come home. It was an odd feeling, something that made her skin itch. She wanted to see his face, to see his smile when he saw his cottage, saw her.
Her hair was a mess, her cheeks white with flour, and she was fairly sure the smell of onions on her fingers would never wash off when he walked in an hour early. But at that point she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Because at once he saw their future- him coming home to her. And she looked totally unlike she ever had before: messy and imperfect, but more real and Earthly than ever, not the glass angel in an evening dress. And all at once they were in their small flat, wherever the hell they'd end up, and she was there to greet him. The future stretched out before him, bright, beautiful, possible.
"Happy birthday, Branson."