Hello, wonderful readers! Welcome to Advent of Snow and Love. Judging from the title, you have probably guessed that this is a Downton Abbey holiday fic. Of course, it isn't the only one out there, but whatever! I thought I might give this a whirl. I don't know if this will just happen to turn out like other Downton holiday stories, but I haven't read a lot of them, I just find recommendations for them online.

Let me tell you how (I hope) this is going to work. This fic is going to (hopefully) be updated on a daily basis, one chapter for each day leading up to the 24th of December. Sort of an advent calendar style. It is also an anthology of different pairings; some will be more central, others will be more background. It is also a modern AU. So, basically it is a Modern Holiday Advent Calendar-style Anthology of Downton Abbey Pairings. Love Actually, much?

Also, the rating system is a bit iffy with these sort of fics. Therefore, I shall rate each chapter myself before beginning the story.

So, let the holiday cheer begin!

December 1: Tidings of Boredom and Cold

Pairing: Mary/Matthew

Rating: K

First December in New York, Mary thought to herself. Isn't this just special?

Her inside voice was sounding particularly sardonic right now, and being currently surrounded by raucous busybody Americans only contributed to a certain gruffness that Mary had possessed since the morning. She didn't understand why today was the day to be in general disagreement with the world; maybe that was just her natural temperament flaring up. Or perhaps it was because her grandmother's penthouse had been two degrees colder than expected and she had woken up with toes feeling like they were encased in ice.

She grunted a bit when someone's shoulder smashed into hers. Mary turned around just in time to see a three-piece suit (yakking into his mobile, of course) disappear into a store. She shook her head in irritation, but nevertheless continued on her way. It was a trifle annoying whenever she made contact with a tactless stranger, but she was used to it by now – especially on busy sidewalks like the one she was on now. She liked to think of Avenue of the Americas as closer to Avenue of the Bruised Shoulders.

She had just made a quiet exit out of the 21 Bar where she had sat through a lunch with her grandmother and some wealthy friends, but she had not been particularly enthusiastic about it. She had been, for the past two months, living in New York City, but she hadn't made very many new friends during that time. It was Grandmama's great goal to get Mary her own circle of companions, but the parties and outings she had been dragged to were attended by self-centered celebrities or diva-like socialites. Mary wasn't fond of being forced to socialize, and having to do so with narrow minded people was just about unbearable.

By now Mary was passing close to Rockefeller Center, the Mecca to the numerous tourists gathered like pigeons near bread. The infamous Christmas tree in front of the skyscraper was already standing erect, but it hadn't been lit up yet. If Mary could remember correctly, the lighting ceremony was taking place in a few days. She still hadn't decided if she was going to go to that. Grandmama had forewarned her that there would be "more tourists than you could package into Macy's," but saying stuff like that did not always deter Mary. On a few select occasions it did, but that alone would not keep Mary from something she had already set her mind to.

Grandmama's apartment house was not located far from the commercial streets; it was on a street with many other luxury buildings, every one of them decorated with opulent facades. Mary could have hailed a taxicab and enjoy a bit of warmth until she reached home, but being able to walk around on her own gave her some time to herself, even if she had to suffer bumping into the ignorant masses at the same time.

She was able to make it back to the lavish apartment house, first entering through the lobby furnished with a doorman, wide carpets, and round tables topped with huge flower arrangements. The trip in the lift was uneventful, albeit longer than she would have liked at the moment, and miraculously she was able to sneak her way into the twenty-room penthouse without any of the staff interrupting her hurried retreat to her bedroom.

Thankful that the penthouse was now a comfortable temperature, Mary shed her heavy pea coat and fashionable riding boots, not bothering to set any piece of her ensemble in its proper place. Feeling the evil spirit of boredom approaching she, still in her stockings, padded over to her laptop. It was charging on the desk, exactly where she had left it. Mary was no technology buff — she actually disliked being so addicted to her MacBook Pro — but even so she had a habit of checking her email a few times a day.

She primarily communicated with her family and friends back home with email. Long distance calling was a hassle (according to her father, who still used a flip phone), and it was simpler in terms of what she communicated: she could say what it was, to the point, and with no awkward pauses. Generally speaking, it was easier for her, except for the fact that she was expected to reply back when someone sent her something. And with nothing of great interest to relay back such emails were, to put it nicely, lacking meat.

There were two unread emails waiting for her. One was from Anna. Mary usually replied back to her, since she could trust Anna not to blather back to her parents about anything condescending she said about the egotistical socialites she had to meet up with. Anna's most recent email said:

Hi Mary. Since it's December and the big tree in Rockefeller Center is being lit soon, I wanted to remind you to take some pics (or maybe a video) of the lighting ceremony. And any other pretty lights you see. John asked this morning if you were planning to go, and I told everyone in New York sees the tree lighting. Do they, actually?

Even before we got out of bed, John was asking when we were going to go out and buy Christmas decorations. We don't have any since it's our first year together in the new flat. We're going out in about fifteen minutes to start shopping and I think John is more excited than I am. You'd hardly believe he's the same man you remember from a few months ago (he's humming carols and he thinks I can't hear him).

Remember: lots of pictures!

Anna

Mary smiled a bit — it was the first time she had done so all day. Perhaps she should see the Christmas tree lighting, if only to get some photos for Anna.

She returned to her email inbox to check the second new message. But she hesitated on clicking it open, as her chest tightened for a brief second.

Sender: Matthew Crawley.

In the two months that she had been out of England, Matthew had sent her three emails. The first one he had sent five hours after her plane had landed in New York. The second one had been sent around Halloween, but Mary did not read it for at least a week. She sent him a return email consisting of less than one-hundred and fifty words, divided into two paragraphs, dictating only the briefest of personal updates.

She felt somewhat guilty at not keeping in touch with him more often. They were friends certainly, and she had promised that she would write to him. Still, there was a hint of embarrassment whenever Mary thought about composing an email to him. She realized how silly this was, considering that she sent regular mail to Anna and her parents. But with Matthew – she couldn't place a specific word on the feeling, but it was almost borderline intimate. And with their unofficial status as "good friends," she didn't want anything to be close to intimate. Too much could go wrong with that.

Nonetheless, with a sigh, Mary clicked on the email to read.

Dear Mary,

It was really nice to hear back from you after so long. I suppose you are really busy in America, and with Christmas coming up, well, I'll bet everything will be hectic. I hear New York is the place to be in December, with lots going on. You need to write me again and tell me the most amazing things you plan to do.

In the meantime, there isn't a lot going on over here. Sybil already has plans for Christmas, and your mother talked to her about not doing anything excessively extravagant (she probably wants to make sure you aren't missing anything spectacular). I suspect Edith is going to be going to London soon because that beau of hers has invited her to stay at his place the week of Christmas. Your father is (obviously) apprehensive, but with you gone I can understand that. Then again, I think it's nice that Edith has a partner that can treat her like a queen, since she's bored to death while she's home.

As for me, I haven't made any long-term plans, but I think I'm just going to stay here as usual. It just seems easiest, what with you gone and Edith planning to head down to London, just so your parents can have that 'sense of normal' at Christmas. (And partially keeping my mother and your grandmother from tearing each other's throat out. Remember last year with the nutcracker?) Believe me though, I'd love to follow you to the city and see what the rest of us are missing. I've always thought the idea of spending the holidays in New York to be really glamourous.

Just remember to keep having fun. You deserve a nice long holiday. And don't take so long to write back, okay?

Matthew

Mary read over the email twice. She was glad that Matthew took the time to write her from time to time. She just did not feel she deserved it.

The past year had been difficult for both of them, for different reasons. With all that had happened between them, it was a wonder they were still, at the very least, on communication terms. Mary imagined the nature of their relationship to be similar to that status tab on Facebook, "It's Complicated" or something like that.

She kept the email open to remind her that she should write back (even though the odds were she'd procrastinate in doing so) and abandoned her computer for something else to do. Without her grandmama always around to herd her about the city for activity, finding a cure for boredom was like searching for a tiny pearl in a snow bank. She had occasionally went out on her own, but as she was no native, she never knew where to search for something to do. Museums were overcrowded, the park was dull, and strangely she never felt like shopping when she was on her own.

Resigned, she picked up today's copy of The New York Times. Normally she was not an avid reader of newspapers – especially in light of recent personal events – but with American publications she didn't hold much wariness. Any England-related gossip was directed towards the royal family or rising blue-eyed actors, so she was safe from that here.

Ignoring the wild headlines of the front page, she flipped through the large sheets, desperate for anything to catch her interest. There was of course the announcement of the tree lighting, something about a celebrity couple that Mary did not give a hoot about, and other similarly dull content.

Ten minutes later, she tossed the paper back on the coffee table in ennui. There was absolutely nothing to grab her attention. She had had episodes like this in the past, when she felt so bored she could feel her brain degenerate into a slug. At home, though, there was usually someone to talk to. Anna, whenever she was not at work, was often a good bet. Her sisters too, but as a last resort since she'd end up listen to Sybil's feminist rants or Edith drone on about either her newspaper column or her boyfriend (who, in Mary's opinion, should not really be called that, since they lived several counties apart and hadn't gone on a truly private date). Matthew sometimes served as a lifeline, though Mary was embarrassed to admit that she enjoyed talking with him. Not that the two of them conversed face to face for some time. That last time they had engaged in a real conversation – Mary had to think a bit to remember – was two days before leaving for America.

That last she had spoken with him – the last real time talking, not the simple goodbye he had given her before she gotten into the cab to the airport – had left her feeling very conflicted about staying in America. She had not been prepared to hear just how much Matthew said he was going to miss her. She had simply brushed that off at the time, saying that she'd be forgotten within a week.

Clearly, that hadn't held true. But she wish it had; otherwise, she wouldn't be missing him so much.

"You're an idiot, Mary Crawley," she said to herself. She walked back to the bedroom, opened up her computer, and clicked 'new message.'

To: Matthew Crawley

Now, just what was she going to write about?

Reviews are, as always, welcome. Singing carols in celebration is a bit much.