Author's Note: Sequel to "A Learning Process", from Dickon's POV, taking place after WWI. The first piece was rated M for sex, and so this piece is rated M as well. However, it is not as graphic as the first part.

Pairing: Mary x Dickon

~BD

A Living Process

He was twenty-one, and presumably, she was eighteen – though he had not heard from her for some time.

Tall, handsome, and well tanned from his work out of doors; one would expect the young ladies of Thwaite to fawn over him incessantly. And yet, none did, because for all he was attractive, there was a haunted curtain in his blue eyes that warned the maids of Misselthwaite to avoid him. Oh, one or two had tried to capture his attention when he'd first returned, but he'd paid them such little heed that they simply became annoyed and gave up.

And, in their frustration, they resorted to talking of him behind his back, behind their hands, and in the servants' dining hall whenever he declined to come to meals. They whispered about the handsome young man who had left Misselthwaite as the best lad in Yorkshire, and returned from the war so altered that no one should have known him.

He ignored them all, for they were not worth his time or effort. He needed to focus on other things right now, and not buxom young maids. So he diligently set about his work at the manor, trying to recall how to make flowers and vegetables grow. Once, it seemed, he had simply been able to talk to them and they obeyed him without thought. But perhaps he had only dreamed such things, for these days he couldn't recall the words to make such miracles happen.

Truthfully, he wondered if he had dreamed everything he distantly remembered from his younger years. It all seemed so vague now. Misselthwaite was so quiet that it was almost eerie, and the moor so vast that it reminded him of the endless, barren fields of France. The abounding gardens seemed lifeless despite his attempts to tend to them, and he was nearly always alone. Even the other under-gardeners avoided the eldest Sowerby son, as though afraid of catching the depression that hovered around him like a black mist. And so he had no friends to chatter with (even if he'd been able to think of something to chatter about).

He knew what he was missing – the key to unlocking his old heart. His new heart had been molded by the fires of hell, shaped and created into a monstrous, twisted, deformed object that did not resemble what he thought his heart (or anyone's heart) should look like or feel like. Beneath this terrible, mangled shell there was surely something of what he only fleetingly remembered, but the key he needed to dissolve the ugly heart was somewhere in London.

It was a theoretical key, because it wasn't what one normally considered a metal thing used to open doors. But it was still a key in the loosest sense of the word.

He wondered what she looked like now. At sixteen, she had been distractingly pretty. He had overheard his sister speaking to Mrs. Medlock a couple of weeks ago; apparently, Lord Craven had a picture of his niece in his study that had been sent to him, quite recently, taken by Colin. Mrs. Medlock claimed it was a wonder of a thing, for the mistress of Misselthwaite looked nothing like the sour child who had arrived from India eight years prior. She apparently looked like the debutant she had been born. London, the daft woman claimed, had done the girl a world of good.

London. When Martha had told him what Medlock had said, he'd scoffed bitterly at the housekeeper's ridiculous notion that London had done anyone any good – and most certainly not the mistress of Misselthwaite. Her garden had molded her into the person she had become. Sugarcoated society could not change that.

Martha had been stunned at the aggressive anger that had emanated from him when he'd voiced his rough opinion to her, and then, in sudden shame for his outburst, he'd sullenly apologized and vanished into the vast gardens to avoid sympathy and censure, just like some old, crotchety bachelor.

And yet, it was somewhere on the grounds, just a few minutes after that conversation with Martha, that he remembered that he had been altered by forces outside of the gardens. Suddenly, he sadly wondered if Mrs. Medlock might not be right. Perhaps London had changed her. And if it had...

A strange, hollow feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. Had it changed her for the worst? He had changed for the worst, after all. He swallowed back the burning in the corners of his eyes and shouldered his shovel more squarely. The east gardens needed tending today; it would not do to wallow in the past if he could help it.

And besides, whatever the case, she was likely staggeringly beautiful now, regardless of changes that London may have wrought inside of her. Likely, she would be courted from all sides, and no doubt someone would steal her heart away (if they hadn't already). And unknowingly, they would destroy his in the same process.

His only consolation was fleeting: She had given him her most precious gift when she had been fifteen, and he gave his to her. He had that, even if he had nothing else. When she married, her husband wouldn't be able to claim something so blissfully perfect. That belonged only to him.

But still, to have that and only that was painful in other ways. He would rather have had her hand and not her purity, for he was not alive without her.

And as a result of the combination of the lack of her presence, his previous experiences, and the tormenting memories, it had taken him nearly two months to gather the courage needed to enter her secret haven once again.

That first afternoon when he finally forced himself down the ivy walk was horrifically difficult. He diverted his eyes from the trailing, dark green tendrils that caught the early summer breeze. The robin's melodic chirp made him flinch and shiver. And even when he reached the place where he knew the door was hidden, he stood outside of it for what seemed the longest time, detesting the loneliness of this part of the grounds, for it was quite cut off from the rest of the gardens and lawns. As a child, he had loved the silence and the secrets, for she had always been with him. Now, utterly alone, with only the crisp, sharp images of the war in his mind, he wondered why he was making himself go into her garden at all. She wasn't here – if she cared, she would be here, but she wasn't, which surely meant she didn't care...didn't it? She had finished her schooling in May, and he'd overheard one of the other under-gardeners remark that Mrs. Medlock was hoping the girl would remain in London, and perhaps be married soon.

But even if she married and left him forever, the garden would still need tending. There was no one else, and so the responsibility fell to him. Shirking from it would be cowardly, and he was most certainly not a coward.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he'd lifted his hand, took the heavy key from his pocket, and pressed it into the rusty lock.

It clicked with an exceptionally loud, grating sound that reminded him vaguely of a gunshot, and he forced himself to push the door open and take a trembling step into the four walls.

His first impression was surprise. Though it had not been tended in nearly two years, there was summer color from all angles. Startled, he had wandered into it, a lost and lonely man, begging silently for the Magic of his childhood to heal his destroyed soul.

Except he didn't expect it to – not really. He didn't believe the silly games they had once played could really heal him. Not now. A random wish it had been, and nothing more.

But then, two months later, he had stopped his weeding one afternoon to gaze at the robin, and the instant realization that he felt better than he'd felt when he'd first arrived home was absolutely staggering.

Was he wickagain?

He couldn't imagine that he was, and yet... his heart did seem lighter. The images of the war weren't as harsh in the garden as they were at night when he was trying desperately to fall asleep, praying to God that he wouldn't have the same nightmares over and over and over.

But... now that he thought on it, he also didn't have quite as many nightmares if he worked in the garden, either.

Surprised by this revelation, he became determined to keep going to the garden to see if it was really something so incredible as "Magic". He kept asking Ben if he mightn't spend even more time in the garden than was truly necessary. None of the adults around the estate seemed to care if a quiet moor lad, who had seen too much death in the war, wanted to work in a secret garden instead of tending the other places around Misselthwaite. He even heard Roach comment to Ben one afternoon, when they weren't aware that he was nearby, that Lord Craven had encouraged them to allow him to work in Mistress Mary's garden as much as possible. And Ben had responded that it was quite likely that Mistress Mary would be coming home soon, and her uncle would want the garden to look beautiful for her return.

The very thought was like a life vest on a sinking ship; he clung to it desperately and continued his work.

And so, the days slipped by into weeks, and the weeks passed surprisingly fast. By the time autumn arrived, he had lost track of time. It seemed strange, he thought one afternoon, as he lay in the coarse, browning grass on one of the terraces in that hidden place, watching the copper and gold leaves dance against an egg-blue sky. Strange that so much time had slipped away, that he had been back for months now, and that the secret garden still held a teensy bit of Magic that had worked upon him as it had worked upon the two former children of Misselthwaite Manor.

There was still work to be done before winter arrived, though – and he wasn't looking forward to winter. Everything would become dormant then; a lifeless state that reminded him forcibly of death, and he had to quickly change his thoughts before he broke out in a cold sweat and remembered the stench of blood and bodies. Unlike the trenches on the battlefields, the garden would come to life again in the spring, and even more so if he tended it properly before the cold really set in. If he could make it through the winter.

So he rolled to his feet and gathered his tools to start his work once more.

It was a beautiful day within; the colors were rich and jeweled, all reds and oranges and yellows and coppers and golds and dark greens. A couple of blue-purple irises peeked from between these vibrant colors, like splashes of deep water. The leaves beneath the oak were thick; he remembered when they had once raked them into piles and jumped in them, to scatter them out again.

He decided to prepare the roses on the east side for winter, for he had prepared the lilies the day before, and he became so absorbed in his task that he didn't hear the garden door creak open.

It was only when he heard the soft rustle of fabric behind him that he jolted and leapt to his feet, a momentary wave of fear numbing his extremities at the thought of someone sneaking up on him; and therefore it was a couple of seconds before he actually registered that Mary Lennox was standing there, and not a German soldier.

Her eyes were wide and soft blue, and she was nervously biting her lower lip ever-so-slightly. Her hair had been curled and pinned up, but her dress was not the fancy, lacy gowns of the previous decade. In fact, it was rather a plain dress of dark burgundy that reached to her ankles, covered by a light autumn coat of rich caramel.

His throat felt suddenly parched, and the numbness in his fingers didn't fade. After a tense moment, he stammered, "Mary?"

She swallowed and stepped forward, placing her left hand against his chest, and it felt as though fire had erupted suddenly within him. His eyes traveled instantly to her fourth finger, noting with a surge of possessiveness that there was mercifully nothing upon it.

"Martha told me you were likely here." Her voice trembled and her hand flattened against his jacket. "I just arrived but ten minutes ago, rather unexpectedly – I only had a chance to telegram Uncle Archie yesterday morning that I was coming home. I couldn't have come earlier, for there were so many engagements to attend over the summer. It was all so dull and awful; I wish I could have returned this past spring! I can't tell you how glad I am to be back." She paused, then breathed, "Oh, Dickon... I'm so happy to see you. You've no idea how happy."

He couldn't let his hopes get away from him; if he did, and nothing happened the way he wanted it to, his heart would shatter. He couldn't bear to feel his heart shatter twice in his lifetime. Hoarse and gruff, he shifted away from her and asked, "How long is thee stayin'?"

She seemed startled by this. "I'm moving back to Misselthwaite, Dickon. For good."

"Eh? But wha' o' London?"

To his surprise, it seemed as though a curtain fell behind her eyes; she diverted them from his gaze and moved to her left, brushing her hand along a couple of crimson roses, knocking several loose petals to the ground. "I don't want to go back to London. I want to stay here. The only reason I went to London to begin with was to receive a proper education, like Uncle and Medlock wanted me to." There was distinct bitterness in her words, reminding him of his own emotions on life.

His hand moved of its own accord and gently touched her shoulder. "Tha's a lady, Mary. Tha needed t' learn such things."

"So you think of me as a lady too, do you?" she asked hollowly.

Startled again, he stammered, "I've always thought thee a lady. That doesn' mean I'm not glad t' see thee again." Then, softly, he added, "I've missed thee somethin' terrible."

"Did you?" She half-turned to meet him, and he could tell she was trembling once more.

He nodded. "Seems like… I couldn' hardly forget the bad things, knowin' I mightn' never get a chance t' be near thee again."

"Well, I'm home now," she said quietly, stepping up to him and placing a tentative hand against his chest again. "And I won't be going away again."

He caught it with his own, marveling at the coolness of her fingers in the chill breeze. "I'm a gardener, Mary. We should remember that."

"That didn't stop thee before," she said, now sounding slightly annoyed.

The wall within his chest was crumbling; he frantically wondered if he should let it. If he did, and lost everything, he would break completely. But it seemed that he was powerless to stop it, because Mary was too near, too beautiful. Without second thought, he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against him, and his body began to shake.

Instantly, her arms twisted about his neck, into his hair. Her lips brushed his neck and his jaw, and then moved to his ear where she whispered, "I'm never leaving you again. Never. I swear it."

He tightened his grip on her, but she didn't complain. His breath seemed to be coming in gasps, searing his lungs. To stop the painful intake, he pressed his mouth to her pulse and the feeling came back to his fingers immediately when her blood seemed to beat faster and hotter.

She gasped. "I thought for a moment that you didn't want me any more, Dickon!"

He squeezed his eyes shut and winced as a couple of tears dotted the shoulder of her coat. "I could never not want thee."

She tightened her fingers in his hair and pulled him to face her, pressing her mouth against his and groaning when, a couple of seconds later, they remembered the right angle and the kiss deepened. He thought perhaps his knees would give way, but they didn't. Almost desperately (for he hadn't touched her in so long), he roughly opened her coat and let his hands travel up her slender body, stopped to cup her breasts and then moved from under her coat to cup her face and place kisses over her cheeks and eyelids and nose, wherever his mouth happened to fall. Beneath him, Mary pulled his shirt from his trousers, only to skim her fingers over the hard muscle in his stomach.

He gritted his teeth, breath hissing in slightly, before they both staggered away from each other. It was almost too much, and it was too cold in the garden to be fooling around like this. Besides, they weren't fifteen and seventeen any longer. Mary was now eighteen and he had just turned twenty-one. He should have more propriety now, more sense. He should have matured, some. Especially since the war.

Still, she looked positively wonderful standing before him, lips parted and flushed from kissing him, coat hanging open where he had tugged it apart to touch her. It was all he could do not to reach for her, to touch her again, to feel her arching beneath him for more.

Perhaps she noticed the hungry flare in his dark blue eyes, for she smiled and said softly, "We have all the time in the world now."

He nodded, not trusting his voice, willing himself to believe her. She was home, and she was his. The wall around his heart was nearly gone, and he felt lighter, though dizzy from emotion.

"Tha garden won' need much tendin' in the winter, though."

A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes. "Then I suppose we'll have to think of other things to do, won't we?"

"Aye, get t' know each other again. I've a feeling we've both changed some, Mary."

She sobered. "Likely. Bad experiences always change people. London and France weren't good places for us to be, were they? I wish we could have both stayed here."

Before he could think of an answer, she reached out and took his hand in hers.

"Enough of that, though. Uncle Archie insists that you to eat dinner with us tonight. He says you've been positively lifeless since you arrived home, and he knows you care for me. You will, won't you? You must, Dickon. He was most insistent."

"Eh... I need t' change, then. I'm not fit for dinner wit' Master Craven."

She nuzzled his throat, her hand threading into the hair at the base of his neck once more. "God, you smell of earth; it's heavenly! Dickon... I want..."

"And if you start that," he added pointedly, trying to untangle her fingers, "neither of us will make it to dinner."

Laughing softly, Mary pulled away from him. "Oh, very well. Come on, then. We can finish the garden tomorrow. And get to know each other again."

Without second thought, he followed her towards the manor, his heart so light it felt as though he could float.

~FIN~