Well, I am completely overwhelmed by the response I received for the first chapter. I was not expecting that AT ALL, so thank you all so much. You have no idea what it means to me. I must also give thanks to Frea O'Scanlin, who made the gorgeous cover. Also thank you to Orangeshipper, who listened and helped me figure out a couple of things. Thank you! Also, my sincerest apologies for the delay with this; I went on holiday and then real life demanded my attention, as it is wont to do, and then it just would not go where I wanted it to, but I managed to get it on the right track, eventually! :)

On that note, here is the next instalment…enjoy!

Chapter 2

11th March 1915

Matthew felt sick. He'd felt sick since he boarded the train in London. No. Before then…since he had stepped off the boat in Dover. He was back in England. Finally. Everything was so different compared to…over there; it was clear, fresh, pure. Everything except for him.

England. London. Home. He'd only been back for two days, for the first time in months, and already it felt like too long. It was also not enough.

Two days ago he'd headed to a small hotel in London, where the kindly old woman who ran it had insisted that he eat something before doing anything else. She'd fed him with lamb stew and fresh bread rolls, followed by apple tart and a tumbler of whiskey. He hadn't realised just how hungry he was until he devoured the meal, his stomach turning slightly at the richness of it but finishing every bite anyway. She'd shown him to the bathroom, where a tub of steaming water was already waiting for him. He had sat in the water until it was stone-cold, scrubbing at every inch of himself until he was almost raw. Scrubbing at the blood and mud that was so deeply engrained in the grooves and ridges of his long slender fingers, in the marks that were his and his alone, now stained by the dark red of others and the earth of France, scrubbing until he almost drew blood. Really, this new covering of dirt had washed away almost instantly, but he still felt it, almost like a new skin, covering him; suffocating and changing him. A new skin and a new identity. He felt so unlike himself that he wasn't even sure if they would recognise him. They. Mary.

Once he had dried and dressed in the soft clean cotton of his pyjamas, he had begun to feel more like Matthew, and less like Lieutenant Crawley. He had wondered if Mary knew that he was due back. She must do, he'd sent the telegram to his mother almost a week before he'd left France. He wondered if his letter had reached her… His mind had raced with endless questions and possibilities, all the while trying to block out the memories of the fighting. How could he think of Mary and at the same time think of France? How could he think of her after what he had done? He couldn't tell her – couldn't tell any of them – that he'd only been there for three weeks before he had killed a man. A German soldier had gotten too close and he had aimed and shot him square in the chest, recoiling as the body fell towards him, but having to ignore it and carry on. How could he tell them that as soon as he was back in his dug-out, he'd been sick and cried? Shame burnt through him at the memory. He had dismissed his man, then sunk down to the floor and let the tears fall as the enormity of what he had done pervaded every fibre of his being, his hands covering his face as he wished for his mother and her comforting embrace, for his father but cursing him for his absence. For Mary…for one last kiss.

But now he was back, and walking through the familiar front door, and he didn't have paper to hide behind. They'd written, and he wanted to be friends, but seeing her again… Would that change things? Would he be able to bear the sight of her? Could they be friends? Could he even remember how to be himself? How could he be here, in civilised company, in society, when he had killed a man? More than one, he thought with a sharp pang of regret. He had killed men, just like himself, some of them younger, and all because they were German…

Before he could dwell too much on that thought, Carson appeared in front of them.

"Welcome back Sir. They're just through there."

"Thank you Carson," Isobel smiled warmly as they followed the butler, keeping one eye on her son. He hadn't said anything. He wouldn't, but he had retreated into himself; something he hadn't done for a long time. He was thinking about something, and she wished he'd tell her and that she could mother him; but he was twenty-seven, not eleven, so all she could do was catch his eye and smile reassuringly at him, even if he didn't smile back.

He was vaguely aware of Carson speaking again, and all of a sudden his heart was hammering in his chest, his eyes drifting from Cora who was stood in front of him reaching for his hand, he licked his lips as he felt his mouth dry out and his chest felt tight, his head turning instinctively…

He met Mary's gaze in an instant. His heart stopping as she offered him a small smile. He nodded, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to look at Robert who had now approached them.

"My dear boy, how glad we are to see you," Robert took Matthew's hand and shook it, smiling as he nodded along and said that he was happy to be back.

Mary swallowed and took a deep breath, unsure of what to do next. Should she go and sit down, or should she go and say hello? No, she had to go to him; she'd been the one to suggest the handshake for goodness sake, and she couldn't sit down because he'd seen her and it would look rude... Oh why had she thought it was a good idea?

Without even thinking about it, she had followed her father, smiling and briefly clasping Isobel's hand as she reached the small group, trying to stop herself from looking in Matthew's direction, but failing as her dark eyes travelled over him, drinking him in. He was taller, if that was possible. Leaner. More serious and sombre looking, but still so handsome. Perhaps even more than he had been before. Her heart thudded as she took in the broad shoulders, covered by the smart red jacket of his mess kit, long legs in black trousers…slim and straight. The neat moustache that covered that place between his top lip and his nose. Distinguished. That's what came to mind as her eyes flitted over him once more. She was suddenly overcome with an urge to touch his face, but she resisted, instead choosing to smile tentatively as his eyes met hers for a second time.

"Mary, we're going to sit down," Robert turned to her and she forced herself to nod, unable to tear her gaze away for even a second. He was alive and he was here. Isobel looked between them curiously, her presence having apparently been forgotten as they only had eyes for each other. She smiled to herself and followed Robert and Cora to their seats.

Matthew's heart raced as he was filled with the vague awareness that they had been left alone, his bright eyes glancing over her. She was so beautiful that he had wondered if he'd dreamt her. But no…she was real and just as lovely as he remembered and stood in front of him, a small smile gracing her lips, the faint scent of her perfume wafting gently into his nostrils…

"Mary Crawley," her soft voice startled him and he looked down to see her right hand extended out towards him. He inhaled deeply, this was it. He smiled and reached out his own hand, his fingers curling gently around hers, feeling a flash of heat at the contact, even though she was wearing gloves, his thumb lightly brushing over her knuckles. Suddenly they were back in the library. Another lifetime ago now; just like everything else.

"Lieutenant Matthew Crawley," he smiled broadly, hoping that he had somehow hidden his nerves. "How do you do?" She was lost in his eyes until she felt the faint pressure of his hand in hers and she smiled, suppressing a gasp. It was already going far better than she thought it would. He didn't hate her (not that she could tell anyway). He could stand the sight of her. Her heart soared; they could be friends.

"I'm glad to see you. You look well," she suddenly felt flustered. He did look well, very well in fact…in his mess kit… She hoped he wouldn't notice the faint blush that she could feel creeping up her neck.

"Thank you. So do you," unconsciously, his eyes dropped, taking in her lips, the gentle curves that were accentuated by her fitted evening dress, how her necklace swayed as she moved… He dragged his eyes back up to meet hers, smiling again. "In fact, I am sure I've never seen you looking so well."

Edith and Sybil twisted in their seats, wondering what was taking Mary so long. What they saw was not at all what they expected to see; their eyes widening in a mix of incredulity and appreciation as they saw the handsome man in the red coat. Mary was stood close to Matthew, their hands still clasped in a handshake, almost as if they'd forgotten about it. Both were smiling, warmly but somehow nervously too, their eyes locked in a silent conversation. The two younger women smiled at each other before turning back, leaving the couple to it.

"So, are we friends again?" Mary eventually spoke, feeling like whatever she said was not enough but needing to say something, and hoping that her voice didn't tremble too much.

"Yes. I'd say that we are. Shall we?" They pulled their hands away at the same time, missing the contact as they walked to their seats.

The concert passed almost without incident, as did dinner afterwards, with Edith boasting about her driving and the busyness of the hospital, but it was all background noise. Mary and Matthew listened and responded when they needed to, but their awareness consisted mainly of the other, kept in sight out of the corner of an eye. Robert mentioned something about being given a colonelcy, which caused Matthew to look up in surprise before muttering his congratulations and turning to Mary, not even aware of his instinctive action until she responded.

She stared at him for a moment before asking the first thing that popped into her head, "What's it been like?"

His head turned and he met her gaze, looking deeply into her eyes for longer than he probably should have for someone who was just a friend. What's it been like? What was it like? It was hell on earth. The stench of death hung in the air, a permanent cloud above them. Everything was stained red and brown with blood, and mud, and other substances that he dared not think about too much as it made his stomach churn. He had seen flesh burnt away, bones sticking out, limbs flying off… The screams of some of the men late at night would be something that would haunt him until his dying day. How he could he tell her that? How could he tell her that thinking of that place made him feel sick? That he feared for his life and the lives of his men every single day? That going back there… He looked away and blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words.

"Do you know, the thing is…" He trailed off and swallowed, not wanting to look at her for the first time that evening. He blinked again, his mouth suddenly dry. "…I just can't talk about it." He looked round to see her nod once and offer him a small smile. She desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, and let him know that it was alright, but she had given up that right. With a sharp jolt, a much ignored thought surfaced at the front of her mind. Something that she had been avoiding for a while, but now it was there and it lurked uncomfortably, begging for attention; it had to be addressed, and soon. Not now though. Not tonight. Soon.

It was a few hours later when Mary walked with Matthew towards the front door, watching him fasten his greatcoat, a comfortable silence having settled between them.

"How long are you back for?" They stopped and he turned to look at her.

"Just until Saturday, then I'm on the six o'clock train back to London."

"And then back to France?" He hesitated before nodding once.

"Would you – if you're not too busy – would you come back tomorrow morning? There's something I need to talk to you about." She felt the sting of tears in the back of her eyes as she thought of what she had to tell him.

"Of course. Nothing too serious I hope," he smiled and she nodded, forcing herself to return it. His mind started filling with possibilities as to what it could be and coming up with only one firm answer. He had glanced at her hand during dinner and not seen a ring, but that didn't mean anything. He supposed she could be engaged, and maybe no one had mentioned it because they were waiting for Mary to tell him, and it wasn't the sort of thing one could put in a letter. Yes that must be it, he thought as his heart sank.

Friends.

"Oh, no," she smiled, their eyes meeting again, this time filled with a sadness as their minds raced with jumbled thoughts. She watched him get into the car after Isobel, remaining in the doorway long after it had driven off into the dark of the night.

12th March 1915

"Lieutenant Crawley is waiting in the library for Lady Mary," Carson announced as he entered the drawing room. "This also arrived for you Milady." He handed Mary a letter, the familiar writing only making her feel more wretched about what she was about to do.

He was stood looking out of the window, hands clasped behind his back, and she noticed, as she stared at his leather boots for longer than she should have done, that the khaki of his normal uniform had almost the same effect on her as his mess kit. He turned, sensing her presence and smiled.

"Hello." He sounded calmer than he felt. All night he'd been plagued with the thought that she only wanted to be friends because she had found someone else. Already. He clenched his fist, hoping to alleviate some of the tension coiled within him.

"Hello. I hope you've not been waiting long. Could we…go for a walk, if you don't mind?"

If he was surprised by the request he didn't show it, and agreed to wait while she fetched her coat. So outside then. Away from the house and servants and family, and prying ears though not, necessarily, prying eyes.

They walked slowly in silence, unconsciously taking a familiar path, painfully aware of the mere inches between them.

"Your letter came this morning, I've not had chance to read it yet though," Mary broke the silence but regretted it instantly. Now was not the time for inane chatter.

"I did wonder," they smiled briefly before silence fell over them once more. The air between them was tense, both wanting to speak but neither being able to find quite the right words. They sat down on the bench, conscious thought having left them completely as they'd wandered aimlessly and ended up there. The words were on the tip of Mary's tongue. She'd rehearsed it to herself over and over since he'd left the night before, and yet now he was sat next to her, staring across the grounds, tapping his fingers on his knee – she wondered if he was aware of it, or if it was just a habit – and she had lost her voice.

"There's something I need to tell you," she broke the silence after what felt like an eternity. "It's…something I should have told you a while ago." She kept her gaze fixed on something in the distance and took a deep breath.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Cora turned to her husband, fully expecting an answer.

"Who?"

"Mary and Matthew. They're outside."

"I don't know," he carried on reading his newspaper. "But whatever it is, my dear, leave them alone."

"Did you seem them last night Robert? They look so natural together," Cora sighed, turning her attention back to the window.

"Cora, leave them be."

"Matthew looks angry," Cora murmured, more to herself than to Robert, but that piqued his interest.

"Oh?" He rose to stand behind his wife, looking out of the window as the figures of Mary and Matthew seemed to be shouting and gesticulating wildly at each other, their faces set in expressions of anger and…hurt. "I'm sure they'll work it out, whatever it is. Cora, dear, whatever you're thinking, don't. They are adults. Leave them to it." He kissed her cheek and gently pulled her away from the window.

"I'm just worried about Mary," Cora murmured as she picked up her embroidery. Robert looked up sharply, meeting his wife's gaze with a frown.

"Why? Cora, am I missing something?" She stared at him and thought for a moment before taking a deep breath.

"Yes. I suppose it's time…"

"Was that why you didn't…" Matthew trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut as he inhaled, desperately trying to process what he'd learnt in the past few minutes. "Was that why you didn't give me an answer?" He lowered his voice, forcing himself to take deep breaths in an attempt to calm down.

"Yes, because I couldn't!" She flung her hands out from her sides, drained and frustrated. They stood facing each other, having been unable to remain seated as the words had tumbled from her lips, their chests rising and falling as they gasped for breath, eyes red with unshed tears. "I couldn't marry you on a lie, and I couldn't be your friend on that same lie. It happened, Matthew. I made a mistake, and I pay for that mistake every day." Her words hung in the air between them, their meaning perfectly clear.

"God Mary, you can't just tell me this and then expect me to-" He pulled off his cap and ran his hand through his hair.

"Expect you to what? I'm not expecting anything Matthew, but I had to tell you and I'm sorry that it took so long for me to realise that." She shook her head and took several deep breaths before speaking again, "And surely, you are responsible for some deaths over in France, so I suppose that should make us even." She spoke softly, attempting to lighten the atmosphere between them.

"Don't joke, please. Not when I'm trying to...to understand. And besides, it's hardly the same," he replied sadly, just as softly. No it wasn't the same. What he had done was worse. Far worse. He had killed men – plural – while she had been forced into a situation and a man's death had been an incredibly unfortunate result of that. But still… Mary had been intimate with someone, and whatever hopes he may have had from renewing their friendship (whether he could consciously address them yet or not), had been altered because of that. It changed everything. She nodded, not wanting to anger him further by offering a false and weak defence.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back inside," she turned towards the house before looking back to Matthew, her voice quiet, defeated, "I know you must despise me, but I'm glad we were friends again, if only for a little while," and with that she turned on her heel, pressing her hand to her face, willing her tears away as she strode back to the house. It hurt but she'd had to do it. If only she'd had the courage to do it before…before.

Matthew watched her for a moment, his head swimming as her revelation spun round and round in his mind.

"Mary, wait. Please." She stopped and heard him come up behind her. He moved to stand in front of her, his heart aching at the sight of her tear-stained face as her dark brown eyes slowly met his. "You're wrong. I never would… I never could despise you. Whatever else I've felt, it's never been that. Not once," he swallowed, holding back his own tears. He meant it. Even through the anger and the hurt and…humiliation, he hadn't hated her, not really. He loved her too much.

"Thank you for that," she nodded and wiped her eyes, feeling a strange sense of relief at his reassurance. They walked back towards the house in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

"You don't look silly by the way," she bit back a smile as she turned to face him properly.

"Oh?" He replied, confused, looking down over himself in case something was amiss.

"The moustache. It suits you," she smiled more broadly as his hand moved to his top lip, almost as if he'd forgotten it was there. "You look very…distinguished." He ducked his head, embarrassed but smiling, a faint heat creeping up his cheeks at her comment. She wanted to say handsome, but something stopped her, so she settled on what she had thought the previous night.

Friends.

They carried on walking, past the house, around the grounds, a silent understanding having passed between them, neither one feeling the need to speak. They eventually parted after a couple of hours with polite smiles and handshakes and best wishes and an unspoken promise that they would still write to each other.

13th March 1915

The steam cleared and he saw her, smiling as she turned, having sensed his presence before seeing him.

"You got my note?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"I'm sorry it's so early…" He trailed off, not really sure of what else to say, what else he could say.

"It's quite alright," Mary smiled though her eyes were glassy. With a sharp pang, she noticed that his were too.

"I don't want to undo…whatever we've managed to get back to, but I did want to see you again before I left," Matthew smiled warmly at her, pleased when she returned it. He reached into his coat pocket and closed his fingers around the object he'd stuffed in there earlier… But losing his nerve at the last second and removing his hand. At that same moment, Mary pulled something from her small bag.

"I wanted to give you this," she pressed it into his hand and he looked down. It was a small toy dog. "It's my lucky charm. I've had it always, so you must promise to bring it back, without a scratch." Their eyes met and his fingers curled around the toy, around her fingers, clasping her hand to his.

"Won't you need it?" He spoke quietly, overwhelmed with emotion that she trusted him with such a treasured possession.

"Not as much as you, so look after it. Please."

"I'll try not to be a hero if that's what you're afraid of," he smiled weakly, putting the toy in his pocket, his fingers brushing against the object once more… But it was too late, the moment had passed. "I'm glad we're friends again."

"Even after yesterday?"

"Yes. Especially after that."

"I am sorry, truly. I-" She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if doing that would somehow erase what had happened.

"I know," he interrupted more harshly than intended, but his voice softened when he saw her expression. "I know, but please let's not talk of that now." He took a deep breath, his eyes stinging as he formed the next words. "I know I shouldn't ask again, but if something does happen… Please, would you look after Mother?"

"Of course we will, but it won't," she nodded, fixing a bright smile on her face.

"Well we have shaken hands, so it might," he answered wryly. His head turned as the conductor blew the whistle behind him. "I have to go, but we are friends again Mary, and I am glad of it."

She nodded in agreement and, acting on a sudden impulse, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, her eyes squeezing shut as she took in the softness of it, of the smell of him, storing everything about that all too brief moment for later. "Well, goodbye then, and such good luck," the tears threatened to spill over as she pulled away, forcing a smile across her features.

He boarded the train with a sad smile, wishing her lips could have lingered on him for longer, wishing he could have had the courage to return the gesture, to give her what he carried in his pocket.

Mary watched the train, turning on her heels as it pulled away from the platform, following the movement, keeping him in sight for as long as she could, unable to stop the tears this time, her face crumpling as her feelings overwhelmed her.

He couldn't leave it like that. He had to see her, one last time, just in case... Fumbling with the window, he pushed it down and leaned out, pulling off his cap to wave at her, his heart breaking as he saw her with her hands pressed to her face, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. He sank against the seat and pulled out the toy, completely unaware that he took with him more of her than just a toy, yet knowing that he had left his heart there.

Friends…

They were. They could be. They had to be.

Thank you for reading; I'd love to hear your thoughts!