A/N: Many more thanks for your kind words and encouragement. Two things - a tip of the hat to OrangeShipper, who was brave enough to go where I only dared to hint. (see Driving out the Dark)
Secondly, this is a pretty strong T rating.. more for emotional battery than anything else.
Any Other World 4/7
He had dreamed, since that moment nearly six years earlier, when she swept into Crawley House, plucked out his heart and rode off with it, that he would one day see that look in her eyes. In the dining room on election night, at Sybil's ball later that summer, and later that very same night in the library at Grantham House, he believed he'd seen that look and it had thrilled him, convinced him that she could one day love him as he loved her.
But not one of those times compared to what he saw now, the look of fully-exposed longing and desire, of raw love and need, the kind of adoration of which he did not think Lady Mary Crawley was capable.
Never had he wanted her more, never had he loved her more, never had he been so convinced that she was the only woman he could ever love.
And never had he hated her so much as he hated her now.
"It was me.. what?" she whispered, taking another step towards him.
"You know," he said dismissively, and turned back to the window.
"I don't know," she said slowly. She was at his side now and the nearness of her only served to fuel both the love and fury he was trying to keep under control.
He did not bother to look up. "Don't play with me. You were here that night I came home. You were in this room, you smiled at me and held my hand and played nursemaid all night. And you haven't bothered to set foot in here again." He paused. "Why are you here now?"
He felt rather than saw her look at the ottoman and he shifted his feet to accommodate her.
"Why are you here?"
She met his eyes. "I thought you... I wanted to talk."
"And you'll only talk to men in bedrooms."
Her right hand flew up so fast he wouldn't have had time to stop her if she hadn't stopped herself. She withdrew it just inches from his wounded cheek, the fingers clenching into a fist as she put in back in her lap.
They both breathed as if they'd been running.
"You wouldn't have done well in the trenches, pulling your punches like that."
"You're hurt," she said.
His eyes glittered. "Yes, I am hurt."
"So am I," she whispered, and looked away.
He regarded her for a moment, impassively, observing a thread of silver in the long lock that curled into her neckline. "I'd offer you a real chair, only there's just this one, and that thing." He waved toward the wheelchair.
"Do you use that?"
"No," he said. "My mother and... They keep putting me in it, but it makes me feel like this is permanent." He snorted. "A gentleman should move under his own power."
She nodded, thoughtfully. "But wouldn't it make it easier for now, especially if you came down for dinner? At least to get through the halls. Everyone misses you."
"Everyone?"
Her mouth twitched. "Edith probably doesn't. She thinks she's in charge of the farms now."
"At least she's doing something."
She raised both eyebrows at this. "And you assume I'm not?"
"Is the great Lady Mary Crawley doing her bit for the war effort?"
The smile on his face did not reach his eyes.
She had no interest in making him aware of any bit she had done. It was not in her nature to draw attention to things like that. One either knew or one didn't. Telling people about it was tiresome and she did not care to be tiresome even if he expected it, partly out of annoyance at Isobel for putting her in this position and partly out of spite.
Mary had not known before this moment that love and intense loathing could exist in the same plane, about the same person, at exactly the same time.
But watching him, watching him remember her, watching him realize that he'd been the one to break her hand, watching the love she knew he felt for her wash over him and then to hear that tone in his voice and see that look...
She deserved some anger. She had accepted that all along. But after two years of a slow-growing friendship, in which she'd chosen to put all her own feelings aside for his, and befriended and defended the woman who would, in the end, be the impediment to her only chance at happiness, she did not deserve this.
"Oh, let's not fight, Matthew." She was pleased her voice sounded so calm.
He frowned. "I thought you liked a good argument."
"I like a good argument."
"Fair enough," he murmured. His face was friendlier now, but something about his eyes worried her. "We shall retreat to our corners and discuss pleasanter things."
She nodded, her face now guarded.
"Why is Murray coming tomorrow?"
Her eyes flicked away for a moment.
"Your father said Murray was coming tomorrow."
"Yes," she said slowly. "I asked for him."
"Why?"
"I want some things settled."
"Like?"
"It doesn't matter."
He leaned forward. "Yes, it does. Why would you need Murray? What are you planning on doing?"
She inched backwards. "I thought we were going to talk of pleasant things."
"Did you find someone willing to take you on with two lovers in your past?"
Her chin tilted slightly higher, as if leaning back would keep tears from rushing out. "I want him to ensure that when you become the Earl, it will be as if I never existed, which I'm certain will be a great relief to you and your wife. One wouldn't want you to have to make excuses for me."
His face must have reflected a question, for she continued. "Don't worry, it won't affect your inheritance. Or your wife's."
The bite in her voice was refreshing. He'd wondered at her friendship with Lavinia, and this was the first time she sounded like the Mary he expected to meet when he returned to Downton.
"I should thank you for being so kind to her. I was a little surprised by your friendship, to be frank."
A flicker of anger was all she allowed before her response.
"Why wouldn't I be her friend? I like her."
"You two are so different."
She absorbed that he meant it as an insult. "Yes, we are," she murmured. "But I'm not going to hold that against her."
The snort that escaped him was involuntary. "So are you teaching her what it means to be the lady of this house?"
Now it was more than a flicker. "Since I don't know what that's like, nor will I ever know, I'm leaving that to my mother and to Granny. I think she'll do quite well. She wants to please them. She wants to please you."
"Something you've never wanted to do."
The silence seemed to stretch for minutes. When she finally spoke, it was with the measured calm of someone containing the worst sort of rage, the kind that once the words are spoken, they cannot be taken back.
"You're entitled to your opinion of me, Matthew. You're not entitled to your own facts about what happened."
"And what are the facts? I proposed to you and you refused to give me an answer until it was too late."
"Too late for what, Matthew?"
He couldn't answer.
"That was your decision, not mine," she said. "You ended it. And now you have Lavinia, someone who gave you the answer you were looking for."
His own suppressed rage began to lick like flames around the edges of his calm.
"So different," he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes," she said. "For example, I haven't slept with you."
She hadn't meant to tell him she knew about that, but considering he'd brought a bayonet to this cricket match, it was a relief to see she'd hit him. He blanched, sick guilt crossing his face, the sort she did not expect to see.
It took him a few moments to respond. "She told you about that?"
"She started to... It wasn't hard to know what she meant. I think she realized I was probably the last person she ought to confess to, at least on that front."
"I would think you'd be ideal."
He could have shot her and it would have hurt less. It was getting harder to keep from crying, but she was damned if he would see her cry tonight.
"Not one of us is an innocent in this, Matthew."
He leaned forward, and that cold smile returned. "You least of all."
And that was the straw, the thing that broke her, and she sprang to her feet so he could not see her face.
He had never hated himself as much as he hated himself right now.
It was like he couldn't control it, flinging knives at her as fast as he could, deriving a sick pleasure from every time he sank one into her. He could make an excuse that he was war-weary, that it was memory of the trenches, the physical pain was making him do it, but the truth was that he was being brutally, unnecessarily cruel to the woman he loved because he wanted her to feel as wretched as he did.
Only now did he realize she probably felt worse, and he hated himself for it.
He flung out his hand to stop her, his right hand grasping hers as he jerked to his feet, the pain forgotten for the moment.
"Don't go, Mary.. I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
"Don't tell me what I am. I'm sorry. That was unnecessary."
She took her hand away. "All of it was unnecessary, Matthew. All of it."
"You're right."
"That's generous." Her face, wet with tears, the lip trembling, suddenly came into the light. "I should be grateful for that."
"Mary..."
"We can't be friends, Matthew."
The words struck him like a stone, sinking him, as his legs shook from the exertion of standing.
"I wanted to be friends. Whatever it took. But I can't be your friend. I can't be. Not knowing..."
He started to lose his balance, his arm snaking out to grab the chair, and she reached for him.
He pushed her away.
"I don't want your help."
"You need it," she retorted.
He wouldn't have needed it if he'd watched his step, but fury and pride kept him from looking down and his foot caught on the corner of the chair.
It must have been the years of riding, he thought much later, the ability to fall and twist in such a way. One moment he was upright, the next he was falling, knowing he was about to break bones again and then suddenly he stopped, almost on his knees, and she was under him on the floor, her right hand at his collarbone, supporting his weight, protecting the barely-healed injuries in his chest and belly.
He lowered himself the rest of the way, his chest heaving, the pain of breathing so deeply enough to cause pain, and then he heard her inhuman wail, stifled at the back of her throat as she cradled her left arm, and he realized she'd landed on it trying to stop him from falling.
"Oh, God," he muttered. "Mary.." And his own pain was gone, forgotten as he pulled her to him, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her eyes. "I'm sorry," he kept sobbing.
"I'm sorry," she answered back.
And at first he comforted her, but as he kept talking, begging, speaking nonsense as she whimpered in pain, the words turned into stories crashing out of his mouth and into her ears, a stream of horror, of fire, and blood and being trapped with the gas mask and thinking over and over again he would die without this, without her, you're on fire, and then she was comforting him, holding him tight, his mouth open against the base of her throat, as he wept, the pain in his chest not just from his injured ribs.
And the clock chimed two, and three, and they just held on to each other, leaning back against the end of the bed, without words, without anything other than knowing the loss of the other's touch would be the end.
"I wish you'd told me." His voice startled her, after hours of quiet.
"Would you have forgiven me then?"
His arms tightened, his breath against her collarbone now. "There was nothing to forgive."
"You say that now."
"Then why ask, Mary?" He pulled his head back to stare at her. "Why ask if you won't believe?"
"I've never believed, Matthew."
"In me?"
She shook her head. "In me."
"Did I do that?"
Again, the dark head shook. "No."
"I wish I'd," and he leaned back into her, lips brushing against her neck, "In London. I shouldn't have let you go that night. I should have..."
"I made you stop," she whispered. "Matthew, I couldn't let you... let us... not until you knew everything."
"The honorable thing to do," he said bitterly. "What our honor hath wrought."
"Your honor," she said. "I have none."
His arms tightened around her, and this time his lips were next to her ear. "Don't ever say that again in my presence." His fierceness surprised her. "Your honor is your honesty, Mary. About everything and everyone, but especially yourself."
"I wasn't honest about Pamuk."
"Because I didn't let you. You tried." Her fingers gripped the back of his neck and his forehead met hers. "Mary, do not let the actions of two dishonorable men define the rest of your life."
She pulled back slightly, her eyes wet. "It's the actions of an honorable one that have defined it, Matthew." Her hands cupped his cheeks and she kissed his forehead before letting him go. "You should be back in bed before that useless nurse wakes up."
"Mary, don't." His hands reached for her, pulling her wrists back toward him, eliciting a hiss of pain that stung his heart.
"Is it.."
"No," she whispered. "It's fine. It's better."
"How did I do it?"
She looked lost for a moment. "Oh. Your mother bumped one of your ribs."
"And I was holding your hand?"
"Yes."
He took hold of it, gently, stroking the tops of her fingers, watching them twitch under his touch.
"What honor is there in making you so unhappy?" he asked, quietly. "What honor do I have?"
"You," and he could barely hear her. "Unlike the ones I have known, you will not abandon a woman you've known."
It had been a night of truths, and this one hurt more than all the rest. It sat there, unanswered as the clock chimed four, and they did not break apart, his fingers toying with her left hand, a thousand things unsaid, the terrible truth that she wasn't wrong, that he could not do that to Lavinia and that he only loved Mary more because she could not do it either.
And she loved him more for knowing she was right about his blasted honor.
He lifted her hand to kiss it, and made a face. "These things smell terrible."
And she laughed, finally, her nose wrinkling in agreement. "I hate it. I want it off."
He held up his own cast, even more wrecked than hers. "So do I."
And this was even worse than the truth, to see him smile at her again.
And this broke his heart more than any sadness, to see that real smile from her.
"Come on," she whispered. "Get up. You need to sleep and so do I."
So he let her help him, using her shoulder to push himself up into the bed after taking off his dressing gown. She looked critically at his bandages, noted aloud that at least he wasn't bleeding after all that and fluffed his pillow.
"Really, Mary. Anyone would think you were a nurse."
"Go to sleep."
His voice stopped her at the door.
"Friends?"
She didn't look at him. "I meant what I said, Matthew. We can't be friends."
And she was gone.
He watched the door for a moment.
Something that had bothered him earlier, but he had shoved aside, trickled back into his thoughts.
Something she'd said, that he should have asked her about, but he was too angry, too selfish to think about it until now.
Something that terrified him.
"As if she never existed," he whispered.
TBC