A/N – This is a quick one shot set in the universe of Across the hall. It's a very, very mild M, but I thought I'd rate it M just in case because I don't want to get into any trouble. It's also pretty pointless, just a little bit of fluff with a tiny amount of angst thrown into the mix then more fluff for good measure. Hope it's ok.
TALK ME DOWN
I wanna come home to you
(in which Mary finds herself gradually and unwittingly moving in with Matthew)
When she's asked to think of home Mary is (to put it mildly) horrified.
It starts with something almost haphazard yet ordinary, the way things between them usually start.
Matthew is lounging on the sofa in his flat, his eyes trained lazily on a file for work that he is reading through for a second time, humming along to a song that is playing only in his head, when the door clicks open and Mary slips her shoes off and throws her coat on the stand with a natural familiarity. He realises there that his spare set of keys seemed to have migrated permanently to her handbag.
She looks perfect, her cheeks and nose a little pink from the cold and her eyes tired from her long day, but when he turns her head to smile at her in greeting, all he can think is how beautiful she is.
She says nothing, closing the door behind her and running an exhausted hand through her slightly windswept hair before padding over to where he's stretched out against cushions. He watches with soft eyes as her feet melt into the warm carpet of his living room and she approaches him without a word, shifting down and curling into the space next to him on the sofa. She's left with little room, so his arm automatically reaches around her to pull her closer against him.
Her skin is cold against his, still resonating with the chill of the outdoor air, and he moves his own warm feet up and down her calves. She giggles at the ticklish sensation, which is partly his intention, and kisses him soundly.
He grins when she pulls back, shifting himself back so he can look at her properly, his hand cupping her jaw, fingers stroking affectionately over her cheek.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" He asks, smiling more widely when all she does is roll her eyes at his antics. "It really isn't done for someone to burst into a gentleman's home unannounced," he adds, kissing her once again.
She snuggles closer to him, fingers splaying out on his side having dipped under the fabric of his shirt, moving steadily upwards as he opens up their kiss with heady enthusiasm.
"If you were a gentleman, your hands wouldn't be inside the back of a lady's jeans." Her words come out hummed into his mouth, a laugh on her lips as he continues to kiss her with his hands staying delightfully put.
She slowly finds herself lying atop him, both their t-shirts discarded elsewhere, one leg either side of him as her hips roll over his.
She reaches for his belt as he goes for the button on her jeans.
"If you were a lady," he points out, "you would not be undoing a gentleman's belt."
Really, he sees no reason why she shouldn't have a set of keys to his place anyway. Just in case.
Her clothes come next.
She has always had spare things at Matthew's – a pair of jeans and some of her underwear live permanently at the bottom of his closet for when she stays over and a couple of his t-shirts and jumpers have somehow got mixed into her pile never to be returned to him – but after a while her clothes begin to accumulate.
He finds himself washing her socks. He sees her shirts drying on his line and wanders how they got there. He has even found pairs of her panties stuffed in his jacket pockets—only on these occasions he has very vivid memories of how they came to be there.
Her pile in his wardrobe growing steadily higher and higher, he eventually clears a drawer and makes some closet space, so she can hang shirts, skirts and even the occasional dress that gets left at his.
He doesn't think anything of it, barely registering the accumulation with the acceptance of when she thanked him for his generosity of space. It's a part of their normality and it never occurs to them to question it.
Until Anna, Sybil and Tom make the sweeping realisation that, really, Mary is sneakily moving in to Matthew's flat.
"I'm serious," Anna laughed, "I barely ever see you at home anymore. You practically live with Matthew now."
Matthew chuckles, his arms encircling Mary's waist from behind, lips curved into a smirk against the top of her head.
"That's ridiculous," Mary scoffs, finding herself leaning involuntarily back into the warm expanse of Matthew's chest.
Sybil snorts, giving her eldest sister a look. "It's true, Mary. I changed your home number in my phone to Matthew's home phone ages ago."
Tom gives a guilty look and raises his hand. "So have I, admittedly."
To everyone's surprise, Mary looks more than a little put out by this. She squirms in Matthew's embrace, her face quite stoic, and moves to sit at a respectable distance from him.
"I don't live with Matthew," she concludes, rather taking the humour from the conversation.
She feels strange, she just wishes she knew why.
Later, she's in her usual place with her head on Matthew's chest, led on his sofa as they watch a film, and the strange feeling comes back again. There's an uncomfortable fluttering in her stomach that settles as a weight, making her feel a little sick.
She sits up very abruptly, and the peculiar feeling increases, so she stands, mumbling something about having to go back to her and Anna's, ignoring the abashed and adorably confused look on Matthew's face as she fumbles for her shoes.
"I'll drive you," he says, rather than protesting, because it's late and dark and once Mary has made up her mind, he knows there's very little to be done to change it. It's not worth an argument.
"No, that's alright, I'll walk."
"Mary, it's late. Let me drive you."
She nods, but the smile she offers him is forlorn and a little forced.
She feels better in the car, the feeling seems to ebb away as quickly as it had come on, but still, when he drops her off, her kiss is perfunctory and her goodbye clipped, and as he drives away the sensation settles in her stomach once again.
Her bed is cold, and she's not used to the way it feels anymore. Anna is more than surprised to see her, and Mary knows she has already texted Matthew to check if she's alright before she disappears to bed.
When she rolls over, at some intermediate time when she's half asleep, and reaches for Matthew, the feeling comes back with a vengeance, increasing tenfold, and as her arm comes into contact with the mattress she realises he's not there and then remembers why.
She wonders if she should call him.
But she doesn't.
Work the next day is fraught with tension and urgency. Her workload has been piling up over the last week and with the deadline coming interminably near everything in the office becomes increasingly stressful.
Still, it's easily and simply swept from her mind when she comes back in the early evening to find Matthew cooking (and burning, she might add) what was meant to be that night's dinner. She can't help the grin that emerges as she wraps her arms around his waist and kisses the back of his neck in greeting. He turns and kisses her properly, his bright eyes and delighted smile still able to make her heart thump like mad, and they giggle together over the ruined food, eventually collapsing into bed and agreeing to order pizza.
She doesn't remember the odd feeling at all.
Things continue in their usual flow from there for quite a while.
Tom, needing a place to stay while he goes apartment hunting, takes up Matthew's spare bedroom for a week or two, but even that doesn't interrupt their usual routine.
The warmth that envelopes her was pleasant and welcome. Bare arms wind their way around her waist, tug her back away from the kitchen counter and press her back firmly against a decidedly bare chest. She exhales deeply and leans into his embrace, stroking her smooth hands over the light hair on his arms. She drops her head back, pushing her hair over one shoulder as she rested against his collar bone, giving him purchase to nuzzle his nose into her neck while she sighed at the glorious feeling of his lips and tongue on her pallid skin. He hums, a deep sound that vibrates against her delightfully, as he pushes the fabric of her (his) shirt over her shoulder and moves to cover the newly exposed skin with kisses. His arms tighten around her as one hand dips underneath her top and strokes softly over her hip, caressing her waist before it moved up further and brushes warmly over her breast. Mary hums delightfully and strokes his calf with her foot, revelling in his touch, his warmth, his scent.
"You two are nauseating, you know that?"
At the sound of a certain Irishman's dulcet tones, Matthew and Mary fly apart abruptly, both distinctly glad that they had been stood with their backs to the door as Matthew frantically moves his hand from her breast and his other from where it was trailing down her stomach.
They both whip around, Mary suddenly becoming aware that she was clad in nothing more than Matthew's, thankfully large, t-shirt and Matthew equally aware that he would have put on something more than boxers if he knew the two of them had company.
"Tom!" Matthew exclaims, watching in surprise as Tom nonchalantly chewed his cheerios, seeming unconcerned over what he'd just walked in on. "We thought you were out!"
Matthew discreetly shuffles Mary in front of him to hide the bulge in his pants.
"I was out," Tom confirms, "but I came back late last night because Evelyn forgot his keys- the spanner."
Tom takes another mouthful of cheerios, chewed, then swallows.
"You two are bloody loud. I had to apologise to old Mrs Stewart next door this morning because you kept her awake all night." Tom laughs, looking up at both of their blushing countenance, thoroughly amused.
"And then I had to put my earphones in at full volume. How you managed to hide your relationship for so long, I have no idea." Tom grins, pausing to walk over to the sink, washing out his bowl and spoon, before thumping Matthew heartily on the shoulder and winking.
"Well done mate, you've clearly got hidden talents."
As soon as Tom rounds the corner and shuts the door of his bedroom, Mary groans, turning to bury her face in Matthew's chest in irritation. Matthew laughs, encircling her with tender arms.
"He's so annoying," She complains, huffing.
"He has taken it quite well, we should be grateful." Matthew chides. "He's quite protective of you, you know, especially given that he's not actually your brother. I'm rather glad he didn't murder me, to tell the truth…"
She cuts him off with a sound kiss, smiling at the feel of his lips quirking up at the corners.
Matthew's hands roam down her sides and dip beneath the hem of her shirt once more, caressing her bottom and pulling her flush up against him.
"Matthew…" She breathes, talking in between kisses, "we should… move…"
"Hmm no talking," Matthew murmurs, lips moving over her jaw, then neck, then shoulder, groaning at the hindrance of fabric that covered her and lowering to his knees to solve the problem. The gasp she gives is strangled and harsh, all coherent thoughts flying from her mind and she barely registered the end of her sentence flooding out between laboured breaths.
"what… if Tom… walks in?"
Matthew chuckles, causing her to buck at the wondrous vibrations he caused.
"The risk is half the fun," he murmurs lowly before reattaching his lips to her and smirking when her fingers grip tightly at his hair.
She walks out of the restaurant and links her arm through her father's. It's cold and dark so she accepts his offer to drive her home and climbs into the passenger seat with a contented smile.
"Are you staying with Rosamund tonight?" She asks lightly.
"No, I'm picking your Mama up from the airport and then we're finally going back up to Yorkshire." Robert smiles contentedly at the thought.
"You've missed home?"
Robert nods, pulling out of the parking space. "Cora's been with your Grandmama for so long, I can barely remember what home feels like."
Mary gives a breath of laughter.
Robert starts the car, turning out of his parking space and onto the road.
"Just put your address into the satnav, I'm afraid I'm not used to driving myself. Let alone in London."
Mary reaches forward, typing her address in and then closing her eyes, leaning back tiredly in her seat. She's shattered, but it feels good. She looks wistfully out of the window, looking forward to being home, to flopping into Matthew's arms and listening to him talk about his day.
They chat about nothing in particular while he drives, and the roads are remarkably quiet for London. Only when he pulls up at their destination, he squints at the building in confusion.
"This isn't where you live, is it?" He asks, one eyebrow raised in a perfect imitation of his daughter.
Mary turned out the window. It was Matthew's building.
"Ah, so your home is with Matthew now?" Robert says suggestively. "Sybil told me you'd moved in together."
Mary feels the strange feeling in her stomach return again.
When asked to think of home, her mind had gone to Matthew, and Mary is, to put it mildly, horrified.
"No." She bites back sharply. "No, I was just confused. Sorry, Papa. Do you mind taking me back?"
"Of course not," he says, rather taken a back. He offers her a reassuring smile, noticing she seems a little on edge, but he doesn't mention it.
Mary types in hers and Anna's address and tries to push away the sick feeling in her stomach.
When she finally makes it back, she sits on the sofa with Anna, not saying a word.
The feeling is still there, growing more and more strong by the second.
Matthew rings and she declines his call – once, twice, three times.
"Is that Matthew ringing?" Anna asks, sensing something's wrong. "Why aren't you answering?"
"I'm too tired," Mary lies.
Anna frowns, giving Mary a disbelieving look.
"Mary, what's going on?"
"Nothing," Mary snaps. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap at you." She breathes heavily, leaning forward.
"Are you alright? Did something go wrong with your dad?"
Mary shakes her head. "No, no. I'm just tired."
Anna doesn't believe her, and doesn't want to drop it either. Her phone rings again, Matthew's contact appearing on her screen.
Anna takes up the phone, offering it to Mary.
"Pick up," she encourages. It's gentle, but forceful as well.
Mary declines the call again. "I'm going to bed," she says instead.
Anna watches her retreating back with concern. She and Mary know each other too well to be blind when the other is lying. Mary is fiercely protective of her friends, but whenever she needs help she won't admit it, won't accept it. She pushes everyone away and shuts herself off. Anna can see it happening now with Matthew, and desperately needs to stop it before whatever it is that's getting to Mary snowballs into something serious.
She gets out her own phone and calls Matthew.
"What's going on?" Matthew looks utterly bewildered and rather windswept when Anna opens the door to him.
"I don't know, she just came back from her dinner with Robert in a very strange mood. I wasn't expecting her back tonight at all… I thought she was going to yours."
Matthew draws a nervous hand through his hair, rubbing his scalp. "She was, or she said she was. What kind of mood? Did something go wrong with Robert? Is everything alright?"
Anna shakes her head, "I don't know. She said everything was fine with Robert but when I pressed her she just said she was tired."
Matthew sighs.
"What are you doing here?"
Mary stands accusingly in her bedroom doorway. Her tone is biting, her brow furrowed as if she can't understand any possible reason why he would be standing in her living room in that moment.
"You weren't answering your phone," he says, as if it were obvious.
Anna senses a domestic coming on, so slips into her bedroom without a word, leaving them to battle it out alone.
"That doesn't explain why you're here." She snaps.
"You said you were coming to mine and then you didn't show up. You didn't answer your phone. Anna called me saying it seemed like something was up. I was worried, there's no need to start at me."
"I'm tired." She lies again, albeit this time her voice is more vexed. "I just wanted to go to bed. Now I'd like it if you'd leave now."
Matthew, hurt by her apparent frostiness, speaks up again.
"There's no need to be so defensive, Mary. Why can't you just tell me what's wrong?"
"Oh just go!" She waves her hand pointedly at the exit. "You have no reason to be here whatsoever!"
"No reason?" He laughs derisively. "I want to know what's upset you because I'm worried, and all you can do is throw me out?"
"There's nothing wrong! Will you please just go!"
"Mary you're being unreasonable—this is ridiculous!"
"Will you, just for once in your life, leave me alone!" She screams, irate, heart pumping madly against her ribs with building fury. "I don't want to talk about it! Why can't you just back off?"
"I just want to help – why must you turn everything into a battle?"
"I don't want your help! Stop pushing me into this! I don't need you!"
Matthew sighed dramatically. "That isn't what this is about!"
"Would you just stop interfering? I don't want you here and I certainly don't want your help."
She's good at arguing, but that doesn't mean she likes it.
Well, that isn't strictly true. She likes a good argument, so does Matthew, and that's something she loves about them; they enjoy sparring with each other. It's a part of who they were, a reminder of where their relationship really started, and she wouldn't change that for anything.
What she doesn't like are the arguments that aren't playful – when there's no amorous lilt to his voice and instead they're both spouting harsh and seething words deliberately aimed to hurt the other. She knows exactly how to push Matthew's buttons, and he knows precisely how to make Mary blow up. They're both strong willed and stubborn, determined and unyielding, and when they are on the edge of their tether or something has gone wrong, it's easy for them to bring their tempers to the point of explosion.
What is often overlooked by friends or onlookers or even themselves, is that Mary and Matthew both know on an unconscious level that they are capable of far more damage than they inflict. There are lines they don't cross, things they don't say, because, at the end of the day, they love each other too much to do any real harm.
That thought is rarely present in the heat of the moment, however.
Anna has become well accustomed to recognising when things were getting to the point where they can no longer be rescued. She can usually tell when things are coming to a head because there are patterns, recognisable signs that are easily overheard. They are well matched, Mary and Matthew, and there is no winning an argument when it comes to either of them, because neither is ever willing to concede to allow the other victorious, but the way they fight differs from one another, and when things get disastrous the gap only widens. Mary is harsh. Matthew is blunt. The quieter Matthew's side gets, the worse things were. And while Mary has a tendency to yell when she grows angry, tearing into Matthew in a malicious rage, Matthew's retorts only become shorter and more clipped as things spiral further and further downward.
The ending is abrupt, a tumultuous silence follows a comment that is regretted the second it is let out to fester in the weighted air between them.
Mary can't believe what she has just said but was too far in now to make a move of apology. She is still angry, fuming, but can't help but feel the guilt set in deep in her stomach as Matthew simply nods slowly and sadly, his eyes trained to the ground.
The void is deafening.
Matthew's shoulders are slumped, his eyes darkened and expression stoic to hide his hurt. Mary just looks tired and tearful, on that point before breaking where she is still desperately trying to rein her emotions in. His instincts are screaming at him to go and comfort her – to wipe her tears from her eyes; hers are equally as forceful in telling her to apologise, stroke his hair gently as she always does and wrap her arms around his neck. She can't bear the way his eyes swim with the stinging pain of what she has just let slip out, but he doesn't see the horror on her face at her own misdoing.
To Matthew, it feels like a sharp slap in the face. Except it knocks the wind out of him, more like a heavy punch in the stomach.
I didn't mean it. She thinks desperately, begging him to hear the thoughts in her head. I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it.
Neither of them move.
She closes her eyes, pressing her palm over her quivering lips as her tears begin to fall involuntarily.
She hears the front door shut with a harsh slam.
When she opens her eyes, Matthew is gone.
She drops down on the sofa and buries her head in her hands.
Mary doesn't often admit when she has messed up, but the look on his face is enough to get her to accept that she has really blown it this time.
Thankfully for Mary, Anna intervenes before she finishes the vodka. She drags her friend to her bedroom where they sit together on Mary's bed, leaning back against the wide headboard, with Mary curled up under Anna's soothing arm. They sit in a heavy silence for a long while until Mary begins to spew out uncoordinated sentences in a muddled mess.
"I didn't mean it," she manages, voice muffled in Anna's shoulder. "I can't believe I said it… such a horrible thing … to say … I…"
"I know you didn't mean it," Anna tells her, her steadiness bringing Mary a little solace. "Matthew knows you didn't mean it. You both just need to take a step back and cool down. Sometimes backing away for a while is the wisest thing you can do; not everything can be sorted out easily and it's worth giving a little distance to gain perspective of the other's opinion. You'll work it out," Anna soothes authoritatively. "You'll be ok – you and Matthew always are."
Mary isn't so sure. She supposes every couple is alright until they aren't and after what she has just said all she can think is that perhaps this is it. Maybe this is their turn to not be alright.
God, she's screwed it all up.
She is still angry with him – furious, seething – but that doesn't make her love him any less. It certainly doesn't lessen her guilt or make her regret her hasty words any less either.
When Anna eventually leaves her after one last hug, she climbs reluctantly into bed and finds it strange without him there. There is no rise and fall of his chest under her head, no steady heartbeat under her ear, no extra source of warmth or comfort to lull her to sleep. His scent remains; it clings to her sheets and sticks to her pillows and it's her favourite smell in the world, but that night it only accentuates his absence.
It seems ironically paradoxical, she thinks, that the time when she needs Matthew's comfort most is the time it isn't available to her.
Matthew leaves her side of the bed empty – the left side, always the left side – and he tosses and turns wildly throughout the night for lack of her weight on his chest grounding him to one comfortable spot. It's strange, because before Mary he didn't really have a side of the bed – he just slept wherever he ended up – but now sleeping on the left simply feels wrong to him. So does sleeping without her. Everything smells of Mary. Even his own shirts carry a touch of her with them and, when he takes his morning shower after no sleep at all, he is too tired to realise that he is accidentally using her shampoo – as well as her body wash – which only makes ridding himself of her smell all the more impossible.
He goes through his day in a kind of unfeeling trace. He is angry and hurt and desperately sad but refuses to dwell on it – which naturally means he is constantly distant and distracted while at work; disgruntled and unreachable, barely even listening when anyone tried to make the slightest conversation.
They haven't spoken in eight days.
It drives him crazy.
She is everywhere he looked. Her clothes still hang in his closet, taking up more space than he has ever used for his own things, and he keeps finding odd tops and socks of hers whenever he unloads the washing machine or takes things off the drying rack. He finds his eyes drawn to where her books are interspersed with his on the shelves, or where her DVD's mingle with his. He accidentally eats the yoghurts she has put in his fridge. He still buys her favoured groceries in the weekly shop.
Everything carries her scent.
On his third sleepless night he changes the bedsheets in an attempt to be rid of the reminding smell, but only finds that it is too ingrained in his bed to be masked. He leaves her side of the bed empty—the left side, always the left side—and wakes up to find a second pillow laying on his chest to replace the weight of her head that no longer lay there. He finds all her shows recorded on his TV. He accidentally uses her body wash every time he showers. He cooks too much food at dinner. He wakes up at the time she always has her alarm set. He finds himself listening for the sound of keys in the door at the time she normally gets back.
He finds a pair of her panties stuffed in his glove box.
It's maddening.
Mary's phone buzzes.
She grabs it at once, heart sinking when the name she sees on the screen is not the name she wants to see.
She declines the call, not in the mood to speak.
She stares blankly at her lock screen, a picture Tom had taken last summer at Downton of Matthew giving her a piggy back on the lawn, her arms around his neck, legs around his waist, lips pressed to his cheek with wide grins of laughter painting both their faces.
She unlocks her phone and hovers for a moment over his contact, knowing if she pressed it she'd be able to hear his voice.
Just his voice.
She sighs, throwing her phone into her bag and heading down to the coffee shop where she'd agreed to meet Anna and Lavinia.
"What's going on, Mary?" Lavinia asks, pushing a strong coffee in her direction. "Evelyn says Matthew's terribly down in the mouth."
"We just had a fight, that's all." Mary shrugs.
That is not all.
"But what was the fight about?" Lavinia questions. "Things were going so well, you were practically living together."
Anna rubs Mary shoulder as she closes her eyes in exhaustion.
The feeling returns yet again, only this time it starts as a pain in her chest.
She makes an excuse about work before getting up and heading back up to the flat, leaving Anna and Lavinia to exchange worried glances at her abrupt departure but instead she makes the decision to work at home, a pounding headache threatening a migraine making facing the office a difficult prospect to contemplate.
The more she tries to work the worse she seems to feel, a rising anxiety bursting through her stomach and into her chest. She tries to push back the feeling, swallow her nerves, but it was like the rational part of her brain had simply ceased to function. She knows she should take a breather, but any coherent thoughts are simply drowned by the incessant noise coming from the kitchen.
The feeling grew.
Her job has eaten up so much of her time lately that it had worked her up into a tense bundle of stresses and worries. She has an inordinate amount of work to manage, too many things to balance, responsibilities to take care of, and with her main support system gone, she feels a part of her crumbling under the immediate weight of it all.
And there was the other reason she is so on edge.
Matthew.
It wasn't simply that she misses him as her boyfriend. She also just misses his company. She misses his friendship. She misses seeing his bright eyes. She misses being able to stroke his hair flop away from his face. She misses his smile, she misses his hugs, she misses his voice.
She misses living under the illusion that she wasn't as pathetic as she seems to be now.
The thing is, Matthew knows how to talk her down. He knows how to deal with her moods and her panics and he knows how to help her. He knows exactly how to calm her down when she can't manage herself to do so.
She can't think straight.
She is flooded with feverish warmth, throbbing against her skin, in her blood. Her muscles tighten inextricably, aching like overstretched elastic, turning her dizzy in turn blurring her vision. That feeling. She is consumed by it. Filled with it.
She snaps her laptop shut sharpish and rubs her swimming eyes.
Her hands are clenched, breaths coming in short, sharp bursts, her heart attacking her ribs, throat closing. She leaves the room in search of somewhere quiet, but knew it was a mistake as soon as the door was closed behind her.
She can feel everyone's eyes on her.
Her lungs constrict.
In the midst of panic, she desperately heads for the bathroom. Her head hurts where it hits the door. Her legs shake underneath her, giving way as the rest of her crumpled back against the barrier. She locks herself in, unable to face the prospect of talking to anyone when she finds she can't even control her shaking limbs enough to move.
This must be what a heart attack feels like. A body that is no longer hers. An aching chest. Wet cheeks. Shaking hands.
Short, sharp, shallow breaths increase, leaving no room for exhale and yet she can't capture enough air to elevate the crushing feeling in her chest.
There's a quiet knock at the door, but it only makes it harder for Mary to draw herself under her own control.
Tom is on the other side of the door, asking her something she can't hear through the blood rushing past her ears.
She can hear Anna's voice now too, worried and gentle, but she can't formulate an answer. She just can't.
She doesn't know how long she's been there when the next knock comes.
"Mary?"
His voice in itself is soothing, but she's sure it's a figment of her imagination.
"Mary, can you let me in?"
Eleven days. Eleven days without speaking to him and now he acts as if nothing's happened. It angers her, but at the same time, she's knows she's the one that wrong footed him. She's the one that shut him out. She's the one that said... what she said. This is his apology, in a way. This is his way of coming back, showing he cares, and now the ball's in her court she knows she needs to do something so she doesn't ruin everything.
Only she can't.
Her limbs barely cooperate, and as she continues to breathe heavily in desperation, she does her best to raise her shaking hand to the lock.
The moves the bolt across and the click of it tells him she's trying, so when he opens the door, it's slow and when he comes in, he's quiet and tentative, closing the door again behind him so they're afforded some privacy.
He sits beside her and offers his hand which she clutches without thinking.
"It's alright," he murmurs softly. "Try to take deep breaths. It'll be over soon."
As much as she hates to admit it, always hates to admit it, he's right. Even the thought tastes sour, but he is; eventually the feeling abates and she regains the ability to breath normally as he wraps an arm around her and rubs his palm over her shoulder.
After a long silence, she asks, "How did you know?" Her voice is still not wholly retuned. He presses his lips to her hair.
"My amazing boyfriend senses told me something was wrong." He jokes. "So I dashed straight back from work."
She manages a short laugh, looking up at him with a cocked eyebrow.
"Ok," he admits, "Tom called me. But I still dashed straight back from work. Why didn't you call me?"
"I didn't know what to say," she tells him truthfully. "I didn't know what I should say after…"
He sighs. "How about – sorry, I should've told you what was going on." He doesn't say it maliciously though.
"Sorry. I should've told you what was going on." She repeats, sincerely. "And I didn't mean—"
"I know you didn't mean it." He reassures her, "But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt."
She tucks her head neatly under her chin. "I know, I'm sorry."
"Two apologies in under a minute? Where's my Mary and what've you done with her?"
She does laugh at that, giggling against his chest and wiping her eyes discreetly as she does.
"So, do you want to tell me what was going on?" His fingers sift slowly through her hair in a repeated soothing action.
She considers this, wandering how to articulate how she feels.
"I just kept getting this feeling – anxiety, I think – whenever someone mentioned that we were living together and then Papa was driving me back and asked me to just put home into the satnav, and I put in your address without thinking. It just freaked me out. It was like… it had been sprung on me without me deciding. We hadn't talked about it and I felt like I was being taken somewhere blindfolded with no choice in the matter. Everyone was telling me what was happening and I was just drifting along with it with no say at all…"
"Shh, shh," he interrupts her babbling to save her breath. "I understand. You felt like everyone was burning your ships."
She nods. "And you kept asking how I felt and I didn't know… I didn't know how I felt. I still don't. And then I blew up and so did you and you kept pushing me for an answer for a question that hadn't even been asked and I just…"
"Freaked out?" He guesses.
"Yes."
There is a silence, in which he continues to slowly stroke her hair.
He takes a deep breath in, pressing his nose then his cheek to her head, hugging her tightly. "God I'm glad to have you back." He murmurs. "I haven't slept properly for the last eleven days."
She turns her face up and kisses him softly, their noses rubbing. "You old softie," she teases, a smile reaching right into her dark eyes.
Then, quite suddenly, she's rolling around on the bathroom floor as he tickles her mercilessly, laughing heartily, the anxiety long forgotten as she wriggled and kicked happily against his arms.
Her breathing is heavy when he stops, but it's a good heavy, a delighted heavy and she pants, pulling him down to kiss him once more.
He pulls back, his countenance suddenly deadly serious as his eyes lock with hers, face hovering above hers.
"Move in with me?" He whispers, barely able to catch his breath.
She kisses him again, rolling her eyes.
"Alright."
"What?" He asks, shocked.
"Alright," she repeats.
A wide grin emerges across his face and he kisses her again, standing up and bringing her with him. He laughs in pure surprise and wraps his arms around her waist, swinging her around and giggling like a fool.
"Let's go home," She murmurs, her arms still around his neck even after he puts her back down.
Home. Their home.
Mary's smile won't go away.
And that strange feeling is completely gone.
"What colour do you think it should be?" Matthew cocks his head to the side, staring at the wall of their bedroom.
Their bedroom.
He'll never get tired of thinking it.
There's a row of pain pots in front of them, an array of different colours waiting to be chosen from.
"I'm thinking the turquoise," Mary says decisively.
He grins, his nose nuzzling against hers. "What the lady wants, the lady gets," he murmurs, leaning in a little further to kiss her.
His arms wind around her waist and she walks him backward, pushing him down onto their bed (their bed, he thinks with a smirk) and straddling his lap with a playful smile.
"We're not getting very far on the painting front," he comments wryly between kisses.
"Oh do shut up," she breathes against his neck, hands pushing his shirt up his chest.
As it turns out, she thinks, living together is really quite a lot of fun.