A/N: Another Fluffiverse fic, though I apologise in that it really isn't that fluffy...! What can I say, my muse apparently has something of a fixation at the moment. (Next week I hope to return to actual fluff in the Fluffiverse!)

To set the scene, in the Fluffiverse Matthew doesn't enlist but is only conscripted in 1916.

Huge thanks to Silverduck and Silvestria for their polishing and ever-encouraging comments!

Rated M to be on the safe side!

Hope you enjoy :)

This Was Right

Matthew's eyes snapped open, and he gasped for air in the darkened room. His sleep was plagued by a nightmare, of being trapped in a stinking, flooded shell hole, the dead weight of bodies on top of him, suffocating him... His pulse raced in panic as he could not shake the feeling of the weight on him, pressing out his air… His hands gripped the sheets by his side, and he desperately struggled to control his breathing. It took several moments for him to realise what the weight was. Mary. He was at home. Home. His eyes glanced down, seeing in the moonlight his wife curled against him, her arm over him and her head on his chest. Such a familiar sight and sensation, and yet… not anymore.

Feeling slightly sick, he eased her gently off him and sat up, holding his head in his hands. She stirred, but did not wake. He looked at her, at her peaceful, beautiful face, so treasured in his mind. The sick feeling grew, and he stood up and paced across the room, clenching his fists. What was wrong with him? That afternoon he had returned home from the front for the first time in eleven long, long months at war. It should be wondrous. He turned and looked back behind him at Mary, still sleeping peacefully. Memories flooded through his mind of the last night he had spent in this room, with her, and how they had loved and delighted in each other through the night, wonderful but bittersweet with his departure in the morning. The night that had brought their son into being.

He had a son. Reginald, they had decided, in their frequent letters back and forth. Matthew gripped the doorpost to steady his trembling. It had pained him unbearably that he had not been able to get leave in time for his birth, that Mary had had to go through it all alone, without him. It upset him terribly that the first time he had seen his son, he was already considerably over a month old. That had been this afternoon. Matthew had been looking forward to it so much; the expectation had been keeping him going for weeks – to see his precious wife, his beautiful little daughter and now his son… He had been longing to greet them with kisses and smiles and delight.

So why had he not?

Sighing in frustration, he pulled his dressing gown around him and left the room, pacing up and down the hallway. Somehow it just all felt wrong. Here was so perfect, so peaceful, so beautiful… And he felt tainted. Tainted and damaged and changed by the things he had seen in the last eleven months, the things he had done, the horror and the death all around him. And he did not want to taint them. He would not. His darling family was too precious to be spoilt by his tarnish. And Mary… He so wanted to love her, to touch her, to cherish her, but her warmth and beauty only emphasised his own filth, and he had been silently horrified to find himself drawing away from her. It was what he had heard of, what he had dreaded. What he had sworn he would never do. But she was too good, too pure. He didn't want to spoil her… The look in her eyes as he had kissed her chastely and rolled over to sleep had cut him deeply. But how could she possibly understand?

He found himself in the nursery, having wandered there quite unconsciously. Arabella slept in her little bed, her dark curls framing her face. He knelt by her side for a moment, taking her tiny hand in his. She was so innocent… She had grown so much, and now looked quite the little picture of her mother. He smiled sadly, wishing that the sight of her did not just make him feel worse. Shaking slightly, he placed her hand back and stood. With a bitter sigh, he moved to the crib. He pulled across a small chair and sat by it, leaning his elbows on the side and looking down at his son.

The baby slept peacefully, squirming gently and making soft, gurgling sounds. He had dark hair too, little dark wispy curls covering his head. Matthew couldn't quite believe it. The last time he was here, another child had not even been a consideration; and now there was a tiny little boy lying in a crib in front of him. A new, precious little life, that Mary had carried and borne all while he was away. A son.

As if he could sense the tumultuous mood of his father, little Reginald began to stir. A soft little cry escaped his lips and he wriggled a little more under his covers. Matthew's long-dormant instincts kicked in and he reached down, tenderly picking up the baby and taking him into his arms, shushing gently and tickling him. He gasped a little as Reginald's eyes suddenly fluttered open and Matthew was struck by how startlingly blue they were. They were entirely his own.

He hadn't quite realised it, before. Not with such clarity. That their children, both their perfect little children, were created and made by them. He peered wonderingly down at Reginald a little more closely. His own blue eyes. Mary's dark hair and delicate nose; well, so far as you could tell on such a young babe. This precious new life, that was not before, and that now was, taken from them and formed and born with both of them mixed within him. Life, a life he had made and shaped.

A cold, sick feeling twisted his stomach and he started to shake. Life. How could he marvel at life, now? How did he have any right to, when he had seen it destroyed and shattered and disregarded? How dare he cherish this life that he had made, when he had taken so much away? He desperately swallowed back the bile rising in his throat and placed Reginald gently back in the crib. His son's eyes followed him and his little arms reached up as Matthew drew back, his little face twisting into a cry. Matthew gripped the edge of the crib fiercely and stared almost in horror at his son. So innocent and perfect – but what about the lives he had taken? Were they not once innocent and perfect too? He felt as though he'd been punched in the gut as he realised that every man; every young private he'd sent out onto the battlefield and whose lifeless body (or pieces of) he'd had to drag back, every nameless Hun at the end of his rifle; every one of them was somebody's son. Many of them might be somebody's father.

He bolted from the room, sinking to the floor at the top of the stairs, bowing his head onto his knees and wrapping his arms tightly around them. Reginald's building cries clawed at his insides, only furthering his hatred of himself. What had he done? He pictured a scene in a home like his own, with a mother and a baby waiting, waiting for a husband and father who would not return. Because of him. He thought of Mary, and Arabella, and Reginald… What if he never returned? The thought of them, their devastation, translated onto the faceless families of all the men who he'd seen robbed of life, whether at his own hands or not. He was utterly overcome by the most bitter despair and self-loathing. How could he sit here and enjoy and cherish his family when he had destroyed so many?

He started to weep, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed into his knees. Somehow, while he'd been out there he'd been able to justify it all to himself, or ignore it; compartmentalise it into a tiny corner of his brain to convince himself that he was just following orders, doing what he had to, that it was somehow alright. But being here again, seeing his family and their home and their precious life, had forced him with a sick shock to realise how very, very dreadful it all was. And how unworthy he was of them. How could he not be, after the things he had done?

Life. Death. It all tumbled round his mind, sickening him and hurting him, only worsened by the terrible knowledge that he knew his despair would be hurting his family. He should be cherishing them, loving them – oh, he did love them, but he could not bring his wretched self to show them the love they deserved, because he was too rotten for it.

He barely flinched as a hand lay softly on his shoulder. Slowly, he realised that Reginald's cries had ceased; she must have gone to him. And now she was here, to try and calm his tears too. He felt utterly wretched. He tried to shrug her hand away, not wanting to spoil her with his misery. She shouldn't have to tend to him like this. But Mary resisted his shrug and knelt behind him, wrapping her arms fiercely around him, her chin resting on his shoulder and cheek against his, simply holding him tightly. Her heart ached for him. She had missed him so much, and now he was here and in so much distress, and she just wanted to make things right for him. She held him for a long time, not saying anything as there was nothing she could say, just holding him, until his shoulders began to shudder a little less violently and his tears began to subside.

Eventually, his breathing slowed a little to a more regular rate, and he whispered in a tiny, ragged voice.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh Matthew, my dearest Matthew!" she whispered quietly back, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "You have nothing to be sorry for, my love. I am sorry – I wish I could understand."

He released another shuddering sob into his knees. He was supposed to be the strong one, not her. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.

"No. No. You mustn't be sorry," he whispered, his face still buried in his arms. "I've not treated you as I should. I want to – I want to, but I don't – I can't – I've changed, Mary. I don't… I don't deserve this."

Mary was forced to bite back her own tears at the self-loathing in his voice.

"What on earth do you mean, you don't deserve this?" Her whisper was perhaps a little harsh, but she could sense he was damaging himself, and it wasn't right. She wouldn't let him.

He sighed bitterly, turning his head slightly towards her but staring despondently at the floor still.

"I... don't know how to explain it. Here seems so idyllic, so without blemish, and I am not, I - I cannot reconcile it to what I've done out there. I don't – I don't fit. How can I treasure the life here when I am forced to disregard it so there?"

"Because... life is what you're fighting for, Matthew," she pressed, desperately trying to make him see. "What is any of it worth, if you cannot treasure this on your return?"

"I so desperately want to…" his brows furrowed in turmoil. "I want to be happy, but - I can't... It's all wrong."

Mary tugged at his shoulder then until he turned around, facing her kneeling upon the top stair. She was sorely taken aback by the utter despair and distress on his tear-stained face, and she ached for him.

"Yes, Matthew." She clasped his hands, resting them on his knees. "It's wrong, it's all wrong – what you've had to do, where you've been – it's terribly wrong. Out there is wrong. Here, my dearest love, here, this is right. Don't you see that?"

Matthew gulped and stared at her, at his beautiful, perfect wife whose eyes were filled only with love, compassion and concern. Slowly, he repeated her words under his breath.

"This is right."

Slowly, things began to rearrange and fall into place in his mind. This was right. This was how things should be. She was right, the horror and the death and the barren wasteland of destruction, all that was wrong – what happened there was wrong, so very wrong. This, here, was right. This was where he should be. He would have to go back, and be and do all the wrong things, but now, he was here, and this was right.

His eyes flickered down to their clasped hands on his knees. She loved him. And he loved her. And he remembered that he was fighting to save this. Life. And then he kissed her. He kissed her slowly, unhurriedly, reminding himself afresh of her sweetness and her loveliness. He knelt up, as did she, and they pressed together, his hands rising to clasp her face as he held her to him. This was right. He squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head, kissing her more deeply, sighing into her mouth and trembling as she gave a soft whimper of pleasure.

Breathlessly, Mary pulled back, gazing darkly into his eyes. At last she saw a glimmer there, a shade of realisation and acceptance. Slowly she rose, taking his hands and pulling him up. He nodded, following her silently back to their bedroom. This was right.

When they reached the bed he turned to face her, eyes travelling over her with a new appreciation. She raised her arms and he pulled her nightdress over her head, dropping it to the floor beside them. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hands on her hips, pulling her gently towards him and kissing her stomach tenderly, smiling gently against her skin as she chuckled softly and rested her hands on his shoulders. His hands gripped a little tighter as he trailed more kisses across her abdomen, familiarising himself once more with how she felt and her scent, held so dearly in his memory for so long.

He shivered, his breath catching as she pushed his dressing gown off his shoulders. He stood, allowing her meekly to remove it fully, before they lay down together. And he loved her. He cherished her, savoured her, relished her; discovering her all over again. He paid loving attention to every single part of her with his hands, his lips, his tongue, utterly enraptured by her. This was right. She sighed and moaned softly, hands clutching at his hair and shoulders as he made love to her, moving underneath him and over him and making him gasp and groan as she responded eagerly to him, over and over, with a tender intensity born of separation and longing. She was warm, alive, perfect, and the glorious sensation of her all around him began to gradually drive out the dark thoughts from his mind, filling it instead with her life and essence and beauty as he lost himself completely in her, falling apart in her arms with a shuddering cry.

Afterwards, as they lay tangled together in the damp sheets, Matthew reappraised himself as he held her closely to him, still trembling slightly. She was curled into his chest, their legs entwined and arms around each other, pressed as close as they possibly could be. He kissed the top of her head tenderly. She was right. This was right. He had her, and two beautiful children. What point would all the death serve, if he could not come back and savour the life he had with them? What would it all have been for?

He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her deeply. This was what it was for. His wife, his daughter, his son. His darling family. He loved them, and this was right.

Fin

A/N: Thanks for reading! Poor Matthew, I'm terribly sorry I keep putting him through the wringer - at least this time he had Mary to put him straight! Honestly, next week I'm going to try for ACTUAL fluff, with not a mention of the war! :)

As ever I'd really appreciate any feedback, reviews are always very welcome! Thank you! :)