A/N: Happy Monday!

Just a quick one-shot, today. In response to a tumblr prompt by Yourmakingitsnow, wondering what might happen if Lavinia and Matthew had to get the train in 2x01, and bumped into Mary. ANGST. And this happened. :)

Hope you enjoy! Thanks as ever to EOlivet for her polish!

Broken Car, Broken Heart

It was his voice that first alerted her.

Always, his voice. Through the clamour and the bustle on the London platform, that voice… so dearly familiar though it hadn't graced her ears for two long years.

At first, she tried to believe that she was imagining it. It couldn't be him, it was a phantom, what would he be doing in London? She hadn't thought – she wasn't prepared – it had been so long! She clutched her purse a little tighter, her brow tightened in concentration as she held at bay the chatter around her and focussed.

"It really doesn't matter," the voice said. His voice. "The train will be quicker anyway, so we'll have more time to get ready for Mother's concert once we're at Downton. Your car will mend."

She shivered, trembled, tingled. It was Matthew. Matthew. He was here, and she was here, and – he was coming to Downton? She'd forgotten about the concert – of course – but he'd be there. For a moment she wondered if she must be dreaming, hesitant for a moment to turn around and make his presence a reality. It had been so long… Who knew what he thought of her, now? Lord, she was excited to see him – her heart leapt in her chest – but she was so very, very aware of how she'd hurt him. Of the distance he'd created. After that hot summer's day, it had been less than a week before he'd left. And since then he'd not written, he'd not visited – not them, at least – he'd made every concerted effort to avoid that which had caused him pain. For two long, desperate years. Perhaps he hadn't forgiven her, perhaps he couldn't, but – he was coming back, and surely that must mean something? It didn't even occur to her to wonder who he was coming back with, as she finally relented and turned around to find him.

As it happened, she was too breathlessly struck by him for a second, and missed her opportunity to catch the first hand. All she was aware of was him blinking, his expression changing with recognition, stepping forward towards her. Perhaps her mouth was open. She couldn't think.

"Mary?"

Heavens, he was just as – no, more so – strikingly handsome as she remembered him. The uniform (cap, olive greatcoat, high, polished leather boots – every inch the officer)… suited him very, very well. Her heart fluttered sharply, even as it ached at the thought of him at war.

"Cousin Matthew!" There, she'd at last managed speech. A brilliant smile lit her face, to cover any anxiety. She held her hand out to him, courteously. "Well – what a surprise! How long you've been away – you're well, I hope?"

He seemed to hesitate a moment, before he smiled in a breathless rush, taking her hand warmly. Though, when he spoke, he seemed to stumble over his words as if unsure of himself. Well… it had been a very long time, and they'd parted on such terms…

"I'm – yes, I'm quite well, considering everything. It's always a relief to be back on British soil." His smile faltered a little. Yes, Mary supposed, there was something troubled about his expression. Haunted, almost. He was a soldier, now.

"Oh, I'm sure. Well – you look well, anyway!" She must try very hard to remain upon a neutral path. Cousins, friends, family… It was too early, much too early, to imagine anything of that lovers' flame still remained. But – he was smiling at her, he was friendly, he didn't seem repulsed or affronted or angry at her presence, and that was enough for now.

Even so, she couldn't help but add, before she could think better of it, "Forgive me for overhearing, but did I hear that you're coming down for the concert this evening? Dreary thing, I'd forgotten all about it! We have missed you, you know." We. She had missed him… They all had; Papa particularly, her sisters, her mother, even Granny had missed him, she was sure! But she had missed him, and she hoped that somehow, through her careful words, he understood that.

"I – am, yes," he nodded, but his smile was hesitant and he seemed nervous. Had she overstepped her mark? Anxiously, she clasped her purse more tightly and continued to smile. Matthew took a breath before carrying on, angling his body slightly. "You see, there's someone I'd wanted to introduce to you all. Mary, may I – may I introduce you to Miss Lavinia Swire? Lavinia, this is my cousin… Lady Mary."

Mary's lips parted in a perfect, polite gasp of, "Of course!" as she noticed for the first time the young woman standing beside him.

The first thing that struck Mary, was that she was almost unbearably pretty. Extremely pretty, her face reminiscent, somehow, of a china doll. Mary's heart lurched sharply, and a coldness seeped into her gut. No, she shook herself sharply. In a moment's closer inspection, she surveyed the girl's reddish-golden hair, not dissimilar to Matthew's, and pale blue eyes. Maybe she was another distant cousin. Yes, that must be it. Even as she thought it, she realised somehow that it was a futile hope.

"Hello," Lavinia said, and moved her purse to her other hand. She was wearing gloves, of course. Mary swallowed, smiled, and took her hand. "I've heard so much about you from Matthew – I hope you won't think it forward of me, but I've been longing to meet you!"

"Oh – nice things, I hope!" Mary blustered, her mind racing and refusing to put the pieces together, to indulge the ache in her chest.

"What else would she hear from me?"

The warmth of his smile disarmed her, it had been so long… and before she could rally herself to respond, the whistle was blowing, and Lavinia was suggesting that they all sit together, seeing as they were all going to the same place and Mary couldn't possibly sit alone, not now that they'd met. Mary didn't even have time to think about whether or not to refuse, whether she could bear it, before she found herself ensconced with them in a compartment. Sitting across from Matthew, and… She realised she still didn't know.

Her smile, now, was tighter. "Matthew, you haven't yet introduced us properly! Miss Swire knows I am your cousin, and I presume my place in the family, but you have not told me of your acquaintance. You must level the field, cousin!"

Lavinia smiled brightly, happily, while Matthew answered. He'd removed his cap, now, and clutched it tightly in his lap. Mary noticed that his leg was touching Lavinia's. She wished she hadn't.

"No – forgive me – Lavinia is, the daughter of an old associate of mine, Reginald Swire. I was invited for dinner last time I was in England, and – well, that's how we know each other –" He turned and smiled gently (tenderly, almost) at the young woman next to him, who seemed to glow. She laughed, delicately, and touched Matthew's arm. Jealously lanced through Mary, a deeply uncomfortable feeling, and she sat straighter in the seat, repelling her inclination to sink further into it.

"Matthew, we are a little more to each other than that!" Lavinia beamed, turning to smile luminously at Mary. "The daughter of an associate, indeed… Matthew and I are – are engaged!"

Once, Mary dimly remembered a flippant comment she had made about not having a heart. How wrong she was now proved to be, as her heart lurched along with the train as it heaved off from the station, filling her with a sort of desperate dread that she could not go back, could not escape, could not drag herself away now from this situation and those words and that couple sitting before her. Her eyes darted out of the window before she could will her expression into a shocked, dazzling smile.

"Oh! Well – how marvellous!" she exclaimed. For what else could she do? "I'm delighted for you!" The warmth of her words were not lost, she hoped, in the shallowness of her cool tone, as inside she was falling (shattering, splintering, tearing) apart.

Matthew and Lavinia were smiling. They were smiling, happy, together. They were engaged. Mary felt sick. Matthew… engaged. That meant that he liked this young woman – loved her (he must!) – enough to have asked her to marry him, he wanted to spend his life with her, he must have kissed her, she had said yes – accepted him – of course she had! What woman wouldn't be a fool to turn down such a man as Matthew Crawley… Only stubborn, stupid, miserable Lady Mary Crawley. And that was certainly how she felt, as she stared at them now with a sickening sensation in her gut, tears welling in her eyes (how quickly she blinked them away!) behind her charming, hollow smile.

"I know it must be a surprise –" Matthew had started, "but –"

"Why should it be?" Mary desperately brushed him off, shrugging dismissively. "Don't be silly. I'm – so glad you're happy."

Lavinia beamed. "Thank you," she leaned forwards slightly, genuine gratitude shining in her eyes. It was too much for Mary to bear, and after an acknowledging smile she suddenly found a thread on her purse to be entirely fascinating.

"What about you?" Matthew asked softly, intruding into her own, personal misery, an interruption that she resented unreasonably. She glanced up at him, he was looking so kindly at her, so thoughtfully… "You've not said a word of how you are, Mary. Are you well? And – are you happy?"

She nodded brightly. "Terribly well! I've been staying with Aunt Rosamund for several weeks, meeting some of her friends. There's a man I got on very well with – he's terribly clever, and very sharp, he'd be a match for Granny, I wonder – Sir Richard Carlisle. I'd rather like him to visit Downton, as soon as we can arrange it!"

Talking, too much, too quickly, was at least a distraction from her spiralling thoughts. Every word, she concentrated on, thought about, listened to as it left her lips, anything to stop noticing how Lavinia smiled so adoringly at him, how his arm was brushing against hers, how he must have touched her… He loved her… Another glance out of the window, away, distancing herself (though it was impossible in this cramped carriage). Richard. He'd fascinated her, flirted with her… Matthew could be happy. Of course he could, he must! And so must she.

"Oh!" Lavinia murmured softly, seeming to have recognised the name. A gentle frown crossed her brow.

"Darling?" The affectation slipped without thinking from Matthew's lips as he looked at her in concern, a simple word which speared anguish through Mary's heart. Darling. He'd never – he'd never said that to her, it had taken him two years to propose to her, he must – he must love this girl so very much! Her cheeks began to ache and throb with the agony of maintaining even a polite smile, it required the greatest effort of concentration as she felt two years of carefully crafted indifference shatter within her.

"It's nothing," Lavinia shook her head, quickly, touching his arm. "A familiar name, that's all. I think – I think Daddy must have mentioned him before. He knows ever such a lot of people!"

Mary forced another breath, another smile. "Well! One meets so many people in London. It's hardly surprising! I'm afraid you'll find Downton rather a bore – it's terribly dull when one is used to life in the city!"

"Oh, I'm sure it won't be – Matthew told me he worried about that after Manchester, to start with, but I think he misses it terribly now – don't you, darling?"

Matthew's answering smile was rather weak.

"I miss a quiet life," he shrugged. Mary smiled in what she hoped was an understanding way; but really smiling at all was becoming a greater and greater effort but she had to… Had to – carry on – somehow, though the long hours remaining of their journey seemed to stretch endlessly beyond her and she didn't have the faintest idea of how she was to endure it.

For a moment, they fell quiet. Mary couldn't have been more thankful, listening only to the rattle and chug of the wheels on the tracks, the belching smoke, the whistle of wind past the windows… Anything but their voices and their happiness and it was Matthew, he was in front of her for the first time in two years and yet never had she felt further from him.

It was Matthew who eventually broke it. "How is everyone up at the big house?" he asked, lips curving into a gentle, familiar smile. Mary looked up at him, physically trembling almost at how dear he was to her, smiling at her that way, his eyes twinkling fondly, even as it made her heart swell and sink in unbearable emotion.

"Oh they're – well enough," she replied, each word an effort to manage past the lump in her throat. She wanted to cry, to sob and scream and release this pure agony that tore at her. She smiled brighter. "They'll be so glad to see you! Especially Papa."

That, at least, was true.

Matthew chuckled. "It will be very good to see him – well, all of you – again. And Mother, of course, though that's not been so long." He sounded (and looked) almost wistful, and Mary wished so desperately that she could take these two years back and start again. She couldn't say anything, only nod, and stare at him, captivated and sad and trapped by him and once again everything seemed to close in around her.

Then Lavinia started. "Do you know, Matthew's told me not to be but I'm awfully nervous about meeting all of his family. Though – if they are all as pleasant as you, Mary, I hope I shall get on alright!"

"Oh, you will, of course –" Mary breezed through a weak smile. Suddenly, Lavinia leaned forwards, almost as if to take her hand though she seemed to think better of it at the last moment, an earnest smile lighting her countenance.

"Do you know – I hope you won't think it forward of me to say, but I'm very glad to have met you first! I think it will be easier, knowing at least one person will be friendly towards me!"

"Well, of course!" A desperate sort of chuckle somehow wrenched past her lips.

Dear heavens, Lavinia's sweetness only made it worse. Mary smiled at her, looked at her, feeling every muscle in her face tighten and flex with the sheer willpower it required – how could she keep this up? Lavinia was sweet. Pretty. Welcoming. Lovely. Everything Matthew wanted, everything he'd wanted from her, everything… that she was not. All he'd wanted was for her to tell him she loved him, enough to spend her life with him… and she hadn't been able to do that. Lavinia, evidently, had.

A bitter sob rose in her throat and, this time unable to cover it, Mary swept out a lace handkerchief from her purse and pressed it to her lips, disguising the broken sound behind a gasping cough. Her eyes squeezed closed, she felt tears prick and burn… Taking advantage of the handkerchief already raised to her face, she deftly dabbed her eyes and replaced it, taking a deep breath as her lips pressed together.

"Mary? Are you quite alright?"

She could feel Matthew's concerned gaze boring into her, stifling her, she felt hot and uncomfortable and desperately, desperately miserable… How could she have wanted him for two years, two years, and now that he was here she only wanted to be as far away from him as possible? She couldn't, she couldn't do this…

"I'm sorry," she finally gasped, smiling bravely. "You must excuse me, I get a little – nauseous, on the train sometimes. I should have warned you!"

"Oh, you poor thing…" Lavinia cooed sympathetically.

Oh, but her kindness only made it worse! Mary felt her smile tremble, her hands clasping tightly in her lap until they hurt.

"No, no, I'll be alright in just a moment…"

Everything within her felt raw and sharp, at the same time as feeling blunt and roughened. Everything just hurt, it ached, a physical ache that gnawed within her and overwhelmed her and threatened to drown her and it was only by a thread that her head was remaining above the surface, or so it felt… She stared at the floor, stared out of the window, stared anywhere but at them even as her gaze slid inevitably to them, over and over again, the sight of them together, of him happy, mocking her and taunting her. There was nowhere for her to go, no way for her to escape. To talk to them deepened her pain, every indication of their relationship spearing into her heart, while if she was silent her imagination overtook her bringing a worse kind of ache. It was unbearable, simply unbearable, and she felt as though each piece of her heart was curling and rotting and dying and breaking apart until there was nothing left of it, nothing left to hurt, nothing left to dream, nothing left to feel. It was torture.

When she thought about it later, Mary genuinely could not say how she ever got through that train journey. She felt oddly assaulted; she'd been caught unawares, thrown under attack before having a chance to put up her defences.

It was Matthew, and he was getting married to another woman, a kind, sweet girl who loved him, he loved her… and it hurt. Mary could only believe that after a time she had numbed to it, and ceased to feel anything at all. Her responses and her smile became automatic, she didn't (could not) think about it, about anything. She became a shell.

By the time that she finally felt release, an escape, as they climbed out of the car at Crawley House (she'd had to offer, and she didn't miss how Matthew took Lavinia's hand to help her out, how she then took his arm, and Mary fixed upon it so much that she almost felt it herself) she was entirely, utterly spent.

"Are you alright, Milady?" Branson asked cursorily as she leaned back in her seat, eyes falling closed at last. "It must be such a pleasure to see Lieutenant Crawley again!"

"A wonderful pleasure," Mary sighed, without opening her eyes. "I'm quite alright, only tired from the journey. Thank you, Branson." That put an end to it.

She'd spent the whole journey, endless hours, wishing to be alone so that she could cry; yet now she was alone, no tears seemed to come. She was beyond that; to cry, now, would be too much effort. Her pain was too deep, it had cooled and hardened and settled and had lost that raw edge that might drive her to it. She simply could not.

When she arrived home, she brushed off her mother and sisters. They were eager to see her, of course, but thankfully the journey from London allowed her the excuse of retiring to sleep for a while before readying for the concert. Where she would have to see… them, again… She didn't say a word of it to her family, not yet, that could be dealt with later. Now she needed… She didn't know what she needed, she wanted to be alone and she wanted Matthew and she wanted to cry and release everything that had forced itself and locked itself up within her over the last hours.

At last, she reached the safety, the shelter of her bedroom. A haven that no-one would (or should) intrude into. They could not intrude here, only… they did, into every thought. They were engaged. Matthew.

She sat down, weakly, on her bed. Numb. Empty. Heartbroken, heartless. She couldn't have a heart, not any more, it had been shattered. She felt nothing.

She flopped onto her back, then to her front. Still, nothing. She wanted to cry! She wanted to scream, to yell, to shout, lash out… Nothing. With a sick kind of determination, she taunted herself, repeating their words, seeing their smiles, the brush of their coats and limbs, trying to force it. Didn't she deserve to be miserable? Didn't she deserve this pain, hadn't it been her own fault for losing him in the first place?

She hadn't been able to make him happy. She'd let him go. Lavinia made him happy. Matthew deserved to be happy, she wanted him to be, and… he was, with Lavinia, with the woman he'd asked to become his wife and the woman who'd said yes to him.

Matthew could be happy, now, without her.

And it was that thought that finally broke her, as she clutched a pillow to her face and sobbed (screamed, wailed, howled as if wounded) into it for her loss and her love, releasing every ounce of bitter anguish that had lodged into her chest when faced with them on that train.

And by the time she greeted them again, that evening, she was once more the model of perfect composure and pleasantness.

Fin

A/N: There we are :) *hugs Mary* *reminds self they're happy in canon* Thanks so much for reading - I'd love to know your thoughts, reviews always make my day! Thanks so much!