Happy Thursday, dear readers. In honor of the day I traditionally posted chapters of "In the Company of Strangers", I am today posting this one-shot in this AU prompted by a request from a reader who is very dear to me. Illaine-I hope you enjoy this, although it may be a bit different than you imagined. It was wonderful to write for these two again-I miss them already and am anxious to begin the sequel soon!
As always, I own nothing. And I hope you enjoy!
He watches with hands trembling, heart full, a mind stretched, and a body half-numb.
Elated beyond reason, proud beyond speech. But there he stands watching as she holds his son, the wonder in her eyes almost too much for him.
"He's perfect," she states, stroking a cheek so new to the world, pulling him close to her chest to take in his scent. He spies a tear is forming in the corner of her eye, one she will try to hold back, one that will get away from her despite her best efforts. "You should be proud."
"I'm so proud it hurts."
Laughter greets his enthusiasm, as does a strong clasp to his shoulder. He realizes again just how beautiful she is, how ageless her grace, how much he loves her. Emotions tumble over him as he smiles yet again, seeing her stroke what few hairs adorn the tiny bundle she holds protectively.
His son. It is still too much to believe. How had she borne it, having a child and losing a husband on the same day? He cannot begin to fathom her grief, to have such joy ripped away at the very moment all things seem possible.
"Have you settled on a name?"
He looks now to the other he holds so dear, the one whose deep voice has summoned him, seeing the pride in his expression beaming in equal measure to that in hers.
"Yes. We've decided to name him after my father."
Mary's eyes widen as she stares back at him fully, the question she will not ask tangible between them.
"Matthew," he returns, deepening creases around dark eyes smiling back at him with a nod of agreement. "A fine name for a fine grandson."
"Yes," George affirms, gazing at this man he has looked up to since he could remember. "Charles Matthew Crawley. A fine name, indeed."
He hears his mother's audible gasp, but his gaze is fixed on his father. The man who raised him, loved him, taught him to fish and fly a kite. The man who rocked him back to sleep after many a nightmare. The one who taught him how to ride a horse, how to drive, how to treat a woman with utmost respect.
This man. His father. Not the man who gave him life, but the one who showed him how to live it.
"Do you approve, Papa?"
George sees his father's struggle, his search for speech, and notes the very real tears now falling down his mother's face.
"I don't know what to say, George. I don't deserve such an honor."
"Yes. You do," George affirms, moving towards his father, clasping his arm. "I refuse to listen to nonsensical arguments."
He knows from his mother's expression he had just reminded her of Papa Matthew, the man whose picture still sits by his bed, whose uniform lays in a trunk in his bedroom.
"You're as stubborn as your mother, you know," Charles returns, attempting to maintain his composure.
"I have my moments," George replies, watching his mother's face finally erupt into a true smile.
He is pulled into a strong embrace he has cherished all his life, recalling family nights by the fireplace, the tree house built by the very hands now holding him, the final hug he received before joining his regiment in France. The war was hard. But otherwise, his has been a charmed life.
"Thank you, son," Charles manages, still too overcome for more than that. He ravages his scalp with his hand, shaking his head in a futile attempt to block stubborn tears.
"I know you want to hold him," Mary puts in, stroking her husband's arm in a manner George has observed with regularity over the years. She lays the baby in the embrace of his grandfather, making faces at the child that remind him of how she looked at his sister when she was this small.
A lifetime ago…how was this even possible? How is it he remembers these moments with such clarity?
"We'd like to call him Matthew, if that's alright," George states softly, looking back to the puckered face of his son. "We feared having Charles and Charles together frequently might become a bit confusing for everyone."
Both men look to his mother, watching her eyes cloud over a moment as the remembrance of another takes hold.
"Matthew is lovely," she voices, moving to her firstborn, straightening that lock of hair forever falling into his eyes. "He would love that."
She says no more, but kisses his cheek, squeezing his hands meaningfully before moving back to her husband and grandchild .
He watches the three of them together, his mother, his father, his son, and he somehow knows this is right, that she has spoken the truth. Papa Matthew would approve.
And he cannot help but wonder if somewhere beyond their reach, he is smiling, too.
Request: to see some of Mary and Charles and their life together through George's eyes.
And yes-I would love to hear your thoughts. There are more Strangers drabbles in the works, as well.