A/N: Short notes for this story. The title comes from Mumford and Son "Lover's Eyes." I recommend listening to it. Like I said, each chapter will reveal more and more about the characters. Thanks to L and C for their enthusiasm.

2. Champagne

When their feet are not arched impossibly high on stage, once the slippers come off, no one realizes the ugliness of ballet dancers' feet. These feet are built for strength not for beauty, and so for the gala, Mary doesn't wince in her heels or shift from foot to foot–she is built for strength, not for beauty. She greets the guests with a smile and charm, alongside her father, for the thousand dollar a plate gala, benefitting the victims and families' affected by drunk driving. The irony–several of the guests drink until sloshed–is not lost on Mary; she would like to shake them, but they paid and their money is more important tonight–for this. She also knows if you are wealthy enough to attend a dinner where a meal costs a thousand dollars, you are wealthy enough to take a black car, or at the very least, a cab–hailed discreetly down the block so your peers don't notice. It's more than she can say for one of her sisters, apparently too drunk to even show up in the first place. But that's not something to be discussed.

"Hello, so good to see. Thank you for coming."

She says this hundreds of times without minding because she is built for strength. Though of course, glancing at her in the strapless blue dress, haired pulled back, diamonds winking in her ears, people can't help but think the opposite; she must be built for beauty and it's not so different from being on stage. On stage, the audience is not allowed to see the strain or the pain or lack of breath. They only see, or in this case saw, what she wanted them to–a principle dancer in the company and eventually the prima ballerina.

Honestly, she doesn't care what these people think–for once–because the money raised tonight is important. Though it's her father's name on the invitation (much too personal if it was her own) this money is personal to her. It's something she can do when for so long, after her life fell apart, all she wanted was to do something, anything, to put the life she knew back together again–kill the other driver, curse God, become a teetotaler. Now she is doing something, although it is not enough. It will never be enough.

Still, she counts each time she murmurs in dulcet tones, "Hello, so good to see you. Thank you for coming." Then she multiplies that number by a thousand. It makes her feel better.

"Crawley." A droll voice forces her to straighten her spine. She thinks of ballet class–first position, then second, then third…She imagines her body obeying the strict instructions of her mind, gloriously clear of anything but her training and the dance.

She does not want to think of him. She doesn't want to look at him either, but she takes his hand because tonight is important and she will not allow her libido to ruin it. She doesn't want to remember the last time they touched.

"Dr. Blake," she replies formally. "Hello, so good to see you. Thank you for coming."

He doesn't release her hand. "It's good to see you. You look beautiful." He grins in that appealing way of his she hates, deliciously handsome in his tux. She doesn't want him. She doesn't want anyone but the one person she cannot have and suddenly, right there in the middle of the procession line, she wants to curl up and cry. Of course, she doesn't. She only straightens her spine and rolls her shoulders back.

Her lips curve and she speaks through her teeth. "Let go of me." He will only see what she wants him to see. As Shakespeare wrote, all the world's a stage.

Charles leans in closer, whispers one word: "Why?" His thumb caresses her skin and her hand trembles in his grasp. No, he won't let go and she doesn't think he is just speaking of this much too long handshake.

Her eyes grow wide. "Charles." She never uses his first name. "Please." She doesn't raise her eyebrow at him. She doesn't grow still. Her eyes flick meaningfully to the next person in line–an older woman who must be more than just another donor then. For all those reasons, Charles moves on to Robert Crawley, the hearty handshake awaiting him. He doesn't mean to overhear her next conversation. He is trying to pay attention to Robert and his manly slaps on the back. He doesn't know why Robert Crawley ever took a particular liking to him, especially when their ideologies are so distinctly different, especially when Charles is constantly asking Robert to give more. And yet just a few feet away…

He hears a woman's voice– not Mary's–quavering on the edge of tears. "…so thankful you invited us…" He cannot hear Mary's response. "…he would be…" Something muffles the rest, perhaps a hug, but Charles dares not look over. Frankly, he can't imagine Mary–this Mary, all ice–hugging anyone. He's listening to a private moment between a woman and Mary–the most private women he's ever known. "….beautiful. Your dress matches his eyes."

This time Charles does glance at Mary without meaning to, at the gown in an icy blue, warmed by her pale skin. Crystals fan out from the top like a sunburst, falling down the dress and she should look cold, untouchable–like an ice queen–but it's the opposite, particularly because he can remember the way she tastes, her skin beneath his hands. Or maybe he is just contrary. Maybe her stillness makes him long for the length of her body moving in tandem with his own. Her coolness leaves him wanting to taste the salt of her sweat on the curve of her neck.

Unexpectedly, she turns her head and stares directly at him. There is left over emotion in her eyes from the partially overheard conversation–though there are no tears. It is pure and naked sorrow which slowly gives way towards accusation as her eyes narrow on him. Desire and guilt tangle inside of him. She doesn't know what he heard but she knows he heard something. Her mouth firms. She raises a single eyebrow. It's clear that if it is possible to loathe him more than before, she now does.

When she can, and the line of people ends, Mary slips from the room. She sees an exit and takes it without a second thought. Years ago, she thought retreat was a weakness. Now she knows that in order to preserve the whole–that is, herself–there are necessary weaknesses. She cannot breathe; she's faking it, telling herself to inhale and exhale, as if she is taking a yoga class or some such thing. Again, to fight down panic, she imagines herself dropping into a plié, muscles well oiled. Yes, she is built for strength but this is one of the most difficult events of the year and Blake's presence, his scrutiny, his eyes which demand she remember limo rides and nights spent writhing on her bed make it complicated, turning her stomach into knots. Writhing? God. She feels as if she is betraying–

"Mary? Is everything all right?"

Mary slows her breathing and when she turns, it is with a smile on her face. She is built for strength. But her grin widens genuinely. "Tony!" She kisses his cheek and his lips brush hers. This time she means it when she says: "It's so nice to see you. I haven't seen you in ages." She does not want to consider the last time she saw him. It hurts and she is tired of hurting. So she thinks of Charles which hurts in an altogether different way–that keen edge of desire so sharp it slices through her viscerally.

Tony smiles back, his wavy hair falling a bit in his face. She's always enjoyed Tony and he's always been a good friend–though circumstances kept them apart for a time, like most of her friends. "How about letting me have a turn around the room with the prettiest girl here?"

"Oh, I don't know," she demurs. "My dancing days are over." She laughs. Tony always makes her laugh, even on the worst day of her life.

"You were a prima ballerina, for God's sake," he insists. "Your dancing days will never be behind you. I'm the one that should be afraid; you're the professional."

So she allows him to bring her back into the room and sweep her onto the floor. He is a good dancer and there is some pretty applause when guests see the former ballerina on the dance floor. She will do anything so they open their wallets during the silent auction. Anything. She admits that for a moment it feels nice to be in the arms of the friend, to be dancing, to laugh as he whispers quips about the guests in her ears.

But then she reminds herself the point of this benefit in the first place and why it is so important.

She reminds herself she is built for strength.

Charles watches the couple dance around the room. He doesn't applaud because he doesn't feel like applauding. Yet his face is polite though his thoughts are otherwise engaged. He wonders if Gillingham ever stayed over, ever found the beguiling Mary with loose hair and a mouth tasting of toothpaste and coffee, the silk of her robe thin against her skin. He wonders if Mary likes Gillingham. He is jealous over the way Tony can make Mary laugh, over the smiles she gives him. Charles can't help but wonder why he likes a woman (and wants a woman) who so clearly doesn't like him, a cold woman–except when his hands are on her and suddenly she cannot breathe and she is anything but cold in his arms. Most of all, Charles wonders how he can convince her to kiss him again, her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers playing with his hair, as he takes her lip into his mouth and nibbles, until she moans and presses herself to him, until it feels like separating could only result in the end of the world.

He wonders if Mary knows that he can't help but watch her.

She feels his eyes on her. She wishes it was meant offensively but it isn't. That's part of the problem–the softness in his eyes, in his mouth, when he looks at her. He is remembering what it is like between them and so is she. Combine that with the witty repertoire between them and she knows she has to stay away. She wants to stay away. But she doesn't want to stay away. Not really. It's a complicated dance, much more complicated than then the literal one with Tony.

As the night winds down, she finally sits. She is overjoyed it is almost over, this horrible night. And yet she would not want to be anywhere else. She knows she is all difficult contradictions and she doesn't care. She doesn't have to care anymore because her family is used to her and there is no one else she has to please, no relationship to work on, no compromises to be made, no one to curve her body against in the middle of the night, whispering apologies. There is no one to say: darling, let's not go to bed angry.

"Penny for your thoughts."

Before she turns to look at Charles, she makes her face bored, lips turned down. She doesn't know if she has the energy for this after one of the worst nights of the year and yet she is built for strength, not for beauty. All the world's a stage. "I hope you weren't as stingy when it came to the auction."

He laughs. That he thinks she is funny when she is not trying to be always befuddles her, leaves her scrambling for something scathing to say. Other times, he stands beside her and straightens his spine so that if there was a mirror in front of them, no one would be able to tell the difference between them, but for gender, and height, reminding her of the countless ballet classes she attended for years. "Don't worry, Lady Mary. I was generous."

"Oh, shut up," she complains, turning away. He places a glass full of champagne in front of her. "And while you're at it, stop looking at me."

"I heard a gossip reporter call you American Royalty. Would you prefer Duchess? Princess? Queen? That's probably the most fitting. Queen. And I'm not looking at you," he informs her while she rolls her eyes at him. "I'm actively not looking at you."

"It's not a matter of you looking at me. I don't care if you look at me. It's how you look at me," she continues fiercely, shaking her head at him.

He moves his chair closer to hers so he can lean in and speak lowly. "How do I look at you?" He stares into her eyes until she must look away before she takes his face in her hands and kisses him.

Mary glances up at him from under her eyelashes. "Like that. You look at me like that."

He touches the bracelet against her wrist, twirling the diamonds around and around, making her shiver whenever his fingers graze the thin skin there. "How do I look at you?" he repeats. Her lips firm. How can she tell him that he looks at her as if they are pressed together, against the wall, in the dark somewhere? His eyes go heavy lidded. He looks at her as if they are in bed, as if he is inside her while she clings to him.

When he realizes, she won't answer he says, "I noticed you didn't have anything to drink. It's nearly over; have a glass. You should be very proud of yourself."

"It's my father's event," she corrects. Her fingertips brush the glass. "Champagne is my favorite. One glass and everything in my head…" She narrows her eyes at him. "One glass won't make me drunk but one glass would make it easier to make another mistake with you."

Beneath the tablecloth, his hand finds her fisted one. Slowly, he pries her fingers apart, drawing designs on her palm, until her fingertips relax, until her hand starts to tremble. "And you're so sure it would be a mistake?" She can hear the yearning in his voice, feel it in his hands. It matches her own.

With her other hand, she reaches for the glass of champagne. She drinks until the fizzing, golden liquid is gone. Her fingers close on his hand and squeeze before she releases him. "Let's go. You leave first and I'll follow in five minutes."

He grins again. She wishes he is smug so she could slap him, so she could claim he is an ass but she can't. You should be very proud of yourself, he told her without an ounce of cynicism. When was the last time she heard such a thing? Eighteen months ago, she thinks, and grabs his glass of champagne–only a quarter full–and downs that too.

"What if you back out and I'm outside waiting like Cinderella?" he asks, grinning that handsome grin of his.

She gives him a withering (and unfortunately for him, extremely sexy) glance. "Have you even seen Cinderella?" She pauses, playing with the stem of her glass. "Five minutes," she tells him, voice soft but even. "And by the way, about the limo? In this dress? It's a hard and fast rule."

He winks at her. "Hard and fast." If she would allow it, if this was more than it is, more than she will allow it to be, this would be the moment when he would lean in and kiss her cheek. But she won't allow it, not with her posture so perfect, which he finds himself mimicking–the shoulders back, the spine straight–before he rises to go where she will follow in five minutes…or so she says.

The limo ride is quiet and still, just as she asked. Her dress takes up much of the back seat and she stares out the window, away from him. But she does not relax; she cannot.

And yet.

There is something in the air; something is softening her bit by bit. Though she doesn't know if she can give into it. It's the wanting, the yearning, the ache in her belly, her throat. She wishes she could articulate it. She wishes, just for a moment, that she is different.

It's then that Charles reaches for her hand, hidden in the folds of her skirt. His fingertips–neither soft nor abrasive–brush against hers. The back of their hands their before he slides his palm against hers and then waits. She closes her eyes.

After a breath of hesitation, she interlaces her fingers with his. He nearly sighs with relief but he can't because the wanting, the wanting.

She finally turns her head towards him, leaning back on the black leather of the seat. "Blake," she whispers. He leans against the seat as well, their faces inches apart.

"Mary." His thumb grazes against the skin of her delicate hand. It's Mary who strains forward, the muscles in her neck stretching as she touches her lips to his. It's a quiet kiss, one that makes them both ache in their bellies to their toes. Her hand–the one he doesn't hold–reaches up on its own accord, brushes the hair back from his forehead, slides down his cheek. He lets out a quiet groan, encumbered by his suit and her dress. When the kiss ends, though they linger over it, this lovely singular kiss, their faces remain close together. "New rule," he whispers. "I'm staying over tonight."

She glances down and in doing so their foreheads touch. If this is shyness, it is new. She is a puzzle, one he is always discovering pieces too. "Okay," she replies in a hushed voice. "Okay."

It's not frantic this time which scares her a bit, as they enter her apartment. "Make yourself at home," she says uncomfortably. "I have to put this dress away."

He takes off his jacket, hangs it from the post of her bed. The size of her apartment doesn't make sense. It's so small but the space on her floor should make it bigger. "No, that's not the kind of dress, we would want to rip off and throw to the floor."

She glances up at him, though her eyes reveal nothing. "No," she agrees and passes into her closet.

He undoes his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt, removing his cufflinks, placing them on her nightstand. He pauses since his cufflinks lay so near the photograph and frame of another man.

She pads back into the bedroom, in her bare feet, champagne colored panties and a strapless bra, simple but glowing against her skin. "I'm underdressed."

"I'm overdressed." He steps towards her and kisses her. Again, it is like the limo and it's too…it's too much for her. She needs the urgency, the frantic mess where she can't think or feel. She bites his lip, roughly unbuckles his belt. She pulls him towards the bed and he seems to know exactly what she needs, as he always does, sliding his hands down her hips, beneath the material there. They fall onto the bed, his pants, and shoes, and socks, pushed off with her feet.

He can't get a breath out. "My wallet," he murmurs against the skin of her shoulder, as he removes her bra.

"Get it," she replies quickly.

Instead, he first starts pulling bobby pins from her hair. "What are you doing?" The pins fall to the bed around them in a mess.

"I like when your hair is loose and down. Not perfect." He tugs at her lip. "Because not everyone gets to see you this way."

She doesn't reply to this, only reaches up to kiss him again, her hands sliding down the muscles of his abdomen. "Your wallet," she murmurs. He reaches for it, rips the package open. Her toes point against his calf. "Mary," he whispers.

He slides into her, as they lie on their sides, and she gasps when he shudders, all the tension in his back, trying for control. "Wait," he yelps. "Ouch."

"What?" she asks with concern. "What happened?" Did she do something? It isn't as if she has the most experience in world.

"A bobby pin is sticking me in the ass," he grumbles.

She stares at him for a moment and then begins to laugh. The laugh turns to giant giggles and hiccups. "I just want to be clear," she says between guffaws. "I'm laughing at you."

"Not with me. Got it," he smiles ruefully at her, gives her a smacking kiss, but is secretly glad to be holding her in his arms, to hear her laugh, which, ironically, may be the most intimate moment they've ever had.

"You can stop laughing now," he adds as he thrusts inside of her and she lets out a long moan, her toes arched and pointed, pressed to his calves.

A/N: Please, if you are reading, shoot me a review. This is my first modern au. This is my first Charles x Mary. I appreciate your thoughts. A lot. A lot. A lot. LDI