A/N - prompt: "thoughts during/after the train scene"

He spotted her before she saw him. She turned just in time to see the curious smile emerge on his face, watching him appear through the dissipating smoke, his large drab trench coat swaying about the tops of his boots with every stride he took towards her. He cocked his head gently to one side, approaching with a look of mingled surprise and caution.

"Don't worry," she smiled as they stopped before each other, noticing that glint of subtle delight in those bright blue eyes. "I haven't come to undo your good work of the other night."

He looked incredulous. "You must have been up before the servants."

"They were rather surprised to see me." Her smile had been tight since the moment she'd woken. `Her words to whomever had greeted her in the village had been cursory and forced – a façade of ease or contentment had settled over her countenance which proved false to the tense clenching of her heart. And yet the smile she offered him was genuine. It seemed he had softened her; he had smoothed over her sharp corners and jagged edges with memories of laughter across a dinner table, dance after dance in a crowded ballroom, and long kisses, secluded in a corner with his soft lips against hers, her blood boiling, skin pricked with heat under his palms.

She swallowed, pushing down the rising lump in her throat. It was all she could do to keep her breathing from growing ragged. Her stomach had tied itself in knots, twisting tightly with the discomfort of her desperation. She was not deluded. She was well aware of the possibility that she might never see him again. Mary found herself struggling to contain the fact that her love for him was completely undimmed. Two years after watching his proud back grow smaller as he walked away from Downton that last time, the distance between them swelling and stretching, it was still the biggest mistake of her life – letting him go. She was bound by foibles – her pride and her upbringing prevented her from making a direct appeal. She could not simply ask: "Would it make a difference if I told you I loved you?" but, given where he was bound, that it might be the last time she would be allowed to admire the sculpture of his face, the kindness in his countenance, she could not let an ordinary goodbye at the end of an evening serve as the final time they would see each other this side of the grave. Whatever it cost her, however hard it was to leave all that she wanted to say unsaid, she had to say a proper goodbye.

"I wanted to give you this…" her hands were trembling slightly and the way her thumb momentarily fumbled at the clasp of her bag was enough to cause him concern. He might've asked if she were all right, but she spoke before he could. "It's my lucky charm. I've had it always. So you must promise to bring it back…" she placed the tiny toy dog into the glove of his accepting hand. "… without a scratch."

Matthew held it between finger and thumb, his hand still remaining hovered between them. He ducked his head, grinning at Mary's childhood toy, sensing its sentiment, touched that she would gift such a treasured possession to him.

"Won't you need it?" He asked, trying to decipher her cryptic nature. Matthew's feelings for her were tangled and skewed. He didn't know how to decipher them. He had thrown himself into the army with a broken heart of her making, and yet seeing her again after two years had left him more conflicted than ever. If he had been expecting barbs and insults across the dinner table, he was sorely mistaken, but his fondness for their familiar teasing had been deeply disappointed by her comparative quietness of late. It almost made him glad to see her bicker with Edith, as it showed she had not lost her the strength of her character. She seemed subdued – or at least softened – and her answer to his inquiry of her happiness had left more than a lot to be desired. He wished her nothing but happiness, and that wish was in earnest.

"Not as much as you. So look after it. Please."

She wondered if he knew what she was really saying.

Look after yourself. Please, please look after yourself.

"I'll try not to be a hero, if that's what you're afraid of." He caught her eye with a tender glance. Something reassuring in that fantastic blue.

She shook her head and managed a smile, albeit her lips were tight and wobbling.

"Just come back, safe and sound."

Matthew returned the affection in her gaze but said nothing.

"Did you have a happy time yesterday?" She asked, wondering if they shouldn't talk of such things. She would have given anything for reality to suspend itself in that moment. She would have given anything for them both to forget about the war, about their break, about Lavinia, about any number of other things, perchance to kiss him goodbye as if she would if she hadn't made such a mess of things two years ago.

But reality did not suspend.

"I showed Lavinia the places I like most. To give her a few memories."

His smile faded. His eyes darted to the train and then back to Mary. Suddenly, she saw, he looked rather haunted.

There was a lump in his throat now. "Mary, if I don't come back –"

"But—"

"No." He pressed. "If I don't, then do remember how very glad I am that we made up when we had the chance." He wondered if he would ever be able to look at her with anything less than reverence. He wondered why the thought of never seeing her again seemed more monumentous than the thought of being killed in action. He wondered why it hurt so much to see that her eyes were just as full as his. "I mean it," he said, as he felt it was so very important that she knew this. "You send me off to war a happy man."

He smiled at her, preparing to ask the favour he knew he had to ask.

"Will you do something for me?" he managed. "Will you look after Mother, if anything happens?"

She nodded solemnly, feeling the need to look him in the eye as she did. "Of course we will, but it won't." The effort summoned to prevent her tears was enormous.

He found it difficult to speak, like the roof of his mouth was glued strongly to his tongue. Then, he remembered. "And Lavinia? She's young and she'll find someone else – I hope she does, anyway – but until she does…"

Mary would have agreed. She would have accepted wholeheartedly but was saved from the trouble of doing so by the blow of the whistle.

This seemed to require a shaky intake of her breath.

He reached forward and took each of her shaking hands in one of his. He smoothed his thumbs gently over her knuckles, despite the gloves, feeling his fingers tingle at the mere touch of hers. He wondered if she knew what he was trying to say.

You must look after yourself too.

"Goodbye then," she breathed, leaning in to kiss his cheek, letting her lips linger just a little on his skin, allowing herself to breathe in his familiar scent before reluctantly retracting. "And such good luck."

Matthew did not release her hands. He found he couldn't. Even if he wanted to.

"Goodbye Mary," he murmured, giving her fingers one last lingering squeeze of comfort. "And god bless you."

They parted as he turned to the train, Mary's hands falling back to her sides. Her toy dog was safely stowed in Matthew's pocket. He gave her one last lingering glance before he stepped aboard, pulling the carriage door to behind him.

He deliberately sat beside the window. Alone in his carriage he watched her as the train pulled away. He didn't wave. He pulled off his cap, clenching his jaw to stop himself from crying as she disappeared to a mere dot in the distance. He didn't look away until the dot was no longer in vision. He didn't know why the pain in his chest hurt as much as it did. He moved his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat and squeezed the toy dog.

Once the train had rounded a corner, Mary stood back, clasping her hand over her mouth. She finally allowed the tears to seep from her eyes. Her shoulders shook.

"Are you all right dearie?"

Mary turned to the elderly woman that had addressed her. Normally, the mere notion of being referred to as 'dearie' would have left her affronted, scoffing at the condescending label. But the tone was friendly and inquiring rather than patronising, and she was too emotionally drained to care.

She nodded and brushed away her tears, straightening her back bravely. "Fine, thank you."

The woman smiled sympathetically. "Was he your beau?" She asked, clearly having spotted the interaction on the platform.

Mary felt her chest constrict. Her already broken heart forming another deep crack. Not quite able to bear to speak the answer, she told a different kind of truth.

"He was," Mary nodded, for it wasn't a lie. He had been, at one time. That glorious season in London during the summer of 1914, where all that seemed to matter was that she was dancing in his arms, kissing him on secluded balconies or during long walks in Hyde park. He had been her beau then.

The woman didn't seem to hear the prominent past tense in Mary's tone. "He's a handsome lad," she said, catching Mary unawares. She nodded, once again wiping her eyes. "War is a nasty business," the woman muttered. "But I'll tell you this, every war so far has come to an end. This one will too. And one day, with any luck, he'll be back home for good. Just you wait." She produced a handkerchief and pressed it gently into Mary's hands. "You keep this," the woman murmured, patting Mary's wrists. "What's his name, your beau?" She asked.

"Matthew," she answered simply.

"I'll add him to my prayers." The woman said kindly.

Mary, who'd never been particularly fastidious about interacting with the people in the village, suddenly found herself immensely grateful for the sentiment. She hadn't ever put much stead into prayers, for her faith was agnostic at best, but what harm could it do? She had nothing to lose by a blind appeal – however in vain it might be.

"Thank you," she nodded, squeezing the handkerchief in fumbling fingers.