A/N: So Sara Pellow had a request over on twitter involving Matthew's red jacket. I don't know if this is what she was thinking, but it was a diversion before diving back into the angst of Never Such Innocence Again. That Christmas Special was so happy, it's hard to get angsty. Let me know what you think...
Sonnet XCVIII
He did not expect to see the lights still on at Crawley House, not this late after the regimental dinner. Matthew had not particularly wanted to go, but Robert had seemed so excited about it that he felt he should, if only to please Robert. He was especially disinclined after he'd come downstairs to bid Mary goodbye. She had been curiously quiet after she'd seen his mess kit in his dressing room, distracted in a way he had not seen in a while, but she had dismissed his inquiries with a cheerful smile and wave as he left. He wondered if it was remembering the war, or if the baby was giving her trouble, as he stepped through the door of his home and went straight for the drawing room.
She was asleep on the settee, dressed for bed, wrapped in his dressing gown, her feet propped up and her hand draped across the new curve of her belly. Four more months, he thought. His heart went quite soft at the sight, and he dropped his greatcoat on his chair. "Mary," he whispered. "Darling, wake up."
She stirred at the sound, her eyes opening slowly and he smiled down at her. "My dear, you didn't have to wait up for me. You should be in bed." He reached down and took her hand.
"I..." She looked at him, still disoriented from sleep. "You're back." Her hand brushed over his sleeve, and an unreadable expression crossed her face.
"Did you think I wouldn't be?" He bent and kissed her forehead as she sat up slowly. "Come to bed, darling." She did not move, her eyes locked on a place past him. "Mary, what is it?" He looked behind him, to where her gaze fell.
It was his greatcoat, not the green one he'd worn during the war, but his new black one, made for him. "The better for your back, my love," she'd whispered as she buttoned it on him the first time. She'd been right, of course, the thick cashmere and wool had been welcome that unseasonably cold night. "My coat?" he asked. "Mary..."
And then he saw it, saw what she was unable to look away from, the small, grey nose poking out from the pocket, the ears askew as they had been from the moment she'd put it in his hand four years ago. "Without a scratch," he heard her whisper, and her hand gripped his as she burst into tears, not the tears of joy he was used to, the ones at their wedding, or when she told him, shyly, about the baby, but bitter, heartbreaking sobs he had never seen from her.
"Mary, darling, what is it?" His arms pulled her up, wrapped around her, and she wept into his shoulder, her whole body shaking, and he could feel her knees buckle. He caught her, swinging her up into his arms, cradling her gently as she locked her arms around his neck, her wet cheek against his. Matthew had never seen her like this, never known her to cry so, and it terrified him that the tears did not abate even as he left the drawing room and brought her up the stairs, her head buried against him, his own head nodding an unspoken dismissal of his valet Webber, and an acknowledgment of Anna's worry.
Their bed was turned down, and he lowered her gently onto it, kissing her cheek and her eyes as he did so. "Darling, tell me what's wrong. Please."
She let go of him, her hands flying up to cover her face. "I'm being silly. I'm sorry, Matthew."
"No, you're not. What is it?" He pulled her hands away and kissed them repeatedly as he sat next to her. "Tell me, please. Is it the baby? Are you all right?"
"It's not," she whispered, and put his hands on her belly, holding them there. "It's not the baby. And I'm fine, it's just..." A fresh wave of tears struck her and she looked away from him, and his heart broke a little bit.
"Please, Mary. Whatever it is, it can't be enough to make my storm braver cry like this."
She laughed at that, and her eyes met his again. "You will think it's utterly ridiculous."
"I won't. I promise." His raised eyebrows matched hers. "Just tell me, Mary."
She nodded and wiped her eyes. "It's the jacket, Matthew."
For a moment, he thought he'd not heard her. "Jacket?"
"Your mess kit." She stroked the red sleeve, not looking at him. "And I didn't kiss you goodbye when you left."
It wasn't so much ridiculous as it was completely incomprehensible. "Mary, I don't understand."
She kissed him then, deeply, her mouth opening under his, and her hands clutched at the lapels on his jacket before she pushed it off, roughly. "When you wore it... before..." she muttered against his lips. "I wasn't allowed to kiss you or touch you. And I.."
He cut her off with his own kiss, sucking gently on that precious lower lip as it trembled, and thrilled to feel her arch into him. "Darling," he whispered as he broke off. "You can kiss me now."
"I know," she replied softly, her fingers working at his tie. "But you were wearing the jacket tonight, and I didn't kiss you, and then you were gone and I thought this wasn't real. That none of this was real. It's so stupid, I know, but.." She glanced at him as she had just before he'd knelt in front of her and asked her to be his wife, that beautiful, not-quite-believing look that melted him then, and tore at his soul now. "And it all just came back, that terrible night, that concert and you didn't want to see me, and I.. I.. I told you it was silly."
He held her then, gently stroking the back of her neck, agonized at her heartbreak, and wondering what to tell her. That the sight of her that night had broken his heart anew? They had promised the night before their wedding that they would truly live by what he had said before he proposed, that they had each lived their lives before, and they would now only live in the present and not let the past haunt them, but he knew he couldn't help his own feelings, and neither could she. "It's not silly, Mary."
She nestled closer to him, her lips on his throat. "Don't coddle me," she murmured. "It's silly and we said we wouldn't, only..." He felt the first stud on his shirtfront pop, then the second, and her fingertips were dancing across his chest. "I wanted... I loved..." She bit softly at his collarbone, licking the mark as soon as she made it. "You weren't mine, and it wasn't right."
His hands tightened around her waist, and it took everything in him to answer coherently. "We've made it right.. you.. make it right." Her mouth dropped to his chest and he groaned. "Matthew," he felt her say against his skin as she made quick work of his waistcoat, her nails raking his skin as she dragged the shirt from him and that deep, fiery desire he had felt for her since the day he laid eyes on her, that inexplicable need that transcended everything flared within him and he tried to pull the dressing gown open, only to find his hands batted away as she pushed him over and swung herself across him. "Don't strain your back," she murmured, and he grinned as she went for his trousers.
And only then did she allow him to untie the sash that sat a little higher now on her belly, and tear away the white silk, the delicate fabric that covered what he had dreamed of for so long. My wife, he thought to himself as her bare skin met his, as his hands cradled her breasts, as his head lifted to kiss them, reverently, the memory of the first time of being allowed to touch them still fresh in his mind.
And suddenly her fear became real to him, the idea that there was once a time when they loved each other as fiercely as they did now, but they could not do this, that there was a possibility he would never have had the right to grip her hips as she sank down upon him, that she would not be here in his bed, and there would be no child. No Mary, he thought as he flipped them over, no child, no love.
He covered her with kisses, words tumbling out between. "Every time," he whispered. "At this house, at arm's length, and I wanted you, loved you, needed you, Mary." His cheek fell against her stomach and his tears slicked across her skin. "I loved you. I love you."
And as he drove into her, his eyes locked on hers, the last vestiges of that disbelief melted away from her face, and he heard her voice ring out, through the thrumming in his ears, through his own cries of pleasure as he felt the clench inside her, the throb that broke him and carried him with her. He was weak, too weak to hold himself up any longer and as he collapsed next to her, his limbs heavy and twitching, a soft breath of a word escaped her lips and made him smile in utter joy.
"Mine," she said.
FIN