Authors Note: Well this came and struck me completely by surprise. When this was repeatedly suggested to me – this improve chapter happened! Not originally planned as one of my moments between M&M but a bonus chapter! Thanks as always to R. Grace.

First Steps – July –The Train – Mary's POV

"That's yesterday's newspaper," Matthew snapped. "Why are you keeping it?"

Matthew's question provoked several emotions in Mary that she would never have confessed to. The truth was, she had rescued the newspaper to preserve because it would always remind her of better days. Of how Matthew had been spared, how her prayers had been answered. But she could not tell him that, so she formed a different answer.

"Since you asked, I'm only keeping the newspaper for the word-cross puzzle. I always do the word-cross when there is one, and I didn't have any time yesterday."

"Oh," he said simply in response. The anger in his voice giving way was a sad shift. Why was she constantly tricking herself into lying to him? Perhaps she should have told him the truth. But how would the man sitting next to her react to the news that she, of all people, was sentimental about the follies of yesterday's lavish celebrations? And that it had all meant so much to her because of him.

"Don't be so shocked, Matthew," Mary said, reaching around in her purse until she brought forth a pen. She wondered if she should tease him, just a little. Just to, hopefully, animate his sad demeanor. How would he respond? If she were to judge purely by his outward appearance, she would never attempt it, for his entire posture betrayed just one word - exhaustion. Still, Mary decided she would take the tongue lashing if he offered it. She didn't know when the next time she would see him would occur. He had retreated away from her and away from the Abbey since Lavinia's death last spring. So, for now she was going to bravely march into the line of fire.

"Do you think it's not lady like to do a word-cross?" Mary challenged him. She kept her eyes on the puzzle and not on him. Her words, she hoped, concealed the true timber of her voice aching to banter with him, to latch on to the spark in his eyes that always made butterflies appear in her belly.

"No, I … well." Matthew spoke the few broken words, and it took all of Mary's reserve not to reach out to him. The spark she longed to see would not rekindle; it had been snuffed out. And she knew she was to blame. His halting speech was a reminder of his physical appearance having become so altered. Matthew's pinstripe suit was very dashing and the cut accented his trim figure, but to Mary it only said volumes about the weight he must have lost recently. The material was wrinkled and creased from the way it was forced to drape over his lean body. And there was nothing she could do. She was powerless, and this was not a sensation that Mary had ever come to terms with. For when she felt powerless she became upset, and when she was upset…

"Forgive me," Matthew said softly, breaking into her musings. She watched his mouth twitch open to speak again, but nothing happened. He swallowed apprehensively and pinched the bridge of his nose. Mary could see his hand fall and land on his thigh, his fingers drumming ceaselessly from nerves.

"I'm rather out of sorts…" he spoke, his voice trailing off again.

Mary let it go with that, and there was silence between them. But she didn't feel it was a horrible awkward silence. No, it was simply a necessity at the moment. While he had not taken her playful bait, he also hadn't rudely snapped at her. If she gave him a few minutes to collect himself, maybe they could start over. Perhaps she could get him to talk to her. She had hope, just for this small act. Having to watch him being him so despondent was going to make the train ride completely intolerable.

Mary had been exceedingly grateful to have finally been able to take their seats after a slight delay and miscommunication when they had purchased their tickets. In order to avoid Matthew's sour mood escalating, Mary had been forced to take action. She had filled their extra time by suggesting Matthew get his shoes shined. They were awfully scuffed, no doubt from his activities the previous day. A little shine would make him look his best, which was all she wanted. Besides, Mary had also observed Matthew needed to get off of his feet. As she'd watched and waited for him, she'd daydreamed about yesterday's madness. She had seen very little of the celebrations in Hyde Park, her aunt and society friends being uninterested in facing the crowds. She was grateful that Richard hadn't made the affair either, being too occupied with press coverage details for his newspapers.

While Mary had indulged in more than a few cocktails the previous day, it appeared as though Matthew had practically drunk the city dry. He had a pale and awkward tremor about his manner. His steps were again frail. But she had to remind herself – he could take steps, at least.

She would have loved to have seen him in his uniform again; she was sure he had worn it proudly yesterday. Her father had told her that General Strut, Matthew's former commanding officer, had written to him personally to invite him to London. She and her father had shared a moment of appreciation for how respected Matthew was and how well he had represented their family.

When Aunt Rosamund had told her the plan over breakfast, she knew her well enough to believe she wasn't joking. Rosamund had made several daft comments about Matthew saving the day and had even tried to get her to bet on how long it would take before he responded to her brother's telegram. Oh, Lord Grantham didn't know any better. Mary knew that. He was only trying to help, naive as always about Rosamund's actions. The one comfort she took from the meddling was the knowledge that her family did so overwhelmingly believe in Matthew. They cared for him, and that was a tremendous joy to her. Still, it caused its own little earthquakes in her equilibrium, for she had to remember, time and time again, that not only was Matthew not hers, he never would be. So, as she sat on the train enjoying her window seat view, the Thames may very well have been the River Styx.

While Mary had never imaged any danger or violence could come to her at the train station, Matthew had, however, felt differently. There was an overabundance of people, and they had to stay rather close to each other to avoid being swallowed up in the swirling multitude. Not that Mary minded. She let him take her bag, and he had purchased their tickets. When the steward said, "have a good trip, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley," Matthew had said nothing. It had frightened her because, in that moment, his jaw did not drop, his fists did not clench. There had been no visible clue to his feelings, which was unusual for Matthew. When Mary could not read the physical map his posture usually displayed, her heart ached for him further. She wanted to do anything to bring back the Matthew she'd once known, who would always relax around her, despite the circumstances. But perhaps, she thought, berating herself, she had killed that Matthew when she'd come down the stairs. When they had danced and talked and suddenly kissed. If she had not made that decision to interrupt his solitude, perhaps so much further tragedy could have been avoided. But Mary knew all to well that she had to live with the choices she had made. It was just that she had always wanted to protect Matthew from her ill timing, and she had failed him once again.

Still, in the train station, she had taken a measure of comfort from the assumption that Matthew was seen as her husband. It was very unfair to him, especially after she knew what her future was to be. And she did not blame Matthew for being cross with her. But she had never been so proud to have been seen with him. It was as though everything was choreographed to make him appear every bit the knight in shinning armor. Matthew held the door for an older woman and he picked up the wooden toy boat a little boy had dropped. But, those moments were gone now. Matthew was gone now, having retreated deep within himself, to a place not even she could pull him from. Mary thought of the sullen, depressed man he had been last fall. How odd that she should miss that form. The man that had bitterly called himself "the cat that walks by himself" - who had claimed he had nothing to give and nothing to share.

Mary ventured a look in his direction turning, her head slightly to her left. Since he had been so quiet, Mary had thought perhaps he would have succumbed to a catnap by now. But there he sat, eyes glazed over, wide awake, staring out the window on his other side rather than in her direction. She wished to try to engage him in conversation again. Looking down at her newspaper and the puzzle on the page, she had the urge to bait him and she knew just how to get his attention again.

"Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia," Mary said briskly, hopefully her tone had once again being emptied of all emotions and was just a command he would follow.

"What?" Matthew said, his voice sounding so weak and lost.

Mary played her part and rolled her eyes in case he was watching her and repeated her question. She tapped her pen against the puzzle to illustrate that she needed the information.

"Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia."

There was only silence and Mary had to risk it. She tore her eyes of the paper and to the man sitting next to her. He was rubbing his reddish eyes and trying to hide a yawn. He was tired and his nerves were taxed. She brought her eyes reluctantly away. But even with just those few seconds, she relished the cataloguing of his features her quick eyes had made. The stubble on his cheeks because he hadn't shaved, the dark shadows pooled around his eyes that cast a gloom around his face, his windblown hair with its cowlicks sticking up out of place. She thought fondly about how much he needed a haircut to relieve the strands of gold from perching so far forward onto his brow. But, most of all, she painfully missed the innocent confusion in those ocean blue eyes of his.

"Well," Matthew spoke up after another long pause. "The Neva?" He offered.

"That is all I can think of," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, my head is pounding. I'm going to close my eyes now. I hope that helps …" Mary had thought he was finished speaking when the last word crept out. "...you," he finished.

Sitting so close to him, Mary could offer her body no release of emotion at the turmoil he was making her feel. She ached to reach out for him, to hold his hand or massage the tension from his shoulders. To kiss the stubble of his checks or press a wet flannel to his tense brow. Last year she would have done these things with out pause, just because he needed the contact, because he needed a friend. But last year he had not been independent. Last year she had not broken his heart again. She was completely willing to take all the blame, even if she knew the burden was mutual. It was her turn to feel helpless now. Besides, she tried to rationalize to herself, he was speaking to her, and that was a vast enough improvement.

So, Mary crossed her legs under her skirts and made as though she was simply adjusting herself in her seat. Her eyes finally found their way back to the puzzle, and she found Neva did in fact fit perfectly. She felt a rush of simple euphoria that they had worked together. Mary again braced herself and turned her head to her left to look at Matthew. But this time she did not have to worry. He was lightly dozing already. And so she let her eyes have free rein over his pinched face. Then she made a decision. The puzzle in her hand was not nearly as interesting as the one sitting next to her. She neatly packed away the newspaper and retrieved a book, although she had no desire to read it. He could sleep, and she would silently look after him.

As she continued to stare at him, he stirred, his hands fidgeting restlessly. Matthew sucked in a shaky breath, releasing a little wound that reminded Mary of when Isis walked on a bur and yelped. So she did what came naturally to her. She cooed and clucked little sounds at him before she could even stop herself - the urge to comfort him was so automatic - and it worked. Without even thinking, she found her hand cradling his. When she tried to remove her hand his grip tightened. Mary continued to stare at him, blindly reaching for her purse with her other hand to find a handkerchief for her misting eyes. She dabbed at her eyes and continued to watch over him, just like last year. Just like she could have always done if things had been different. However, she was stuck with the choices she had made. Mary couldn't take her eyes off his sleeping form. In a way, she had time now to say goodbye. Yes, she thought, this train ride is exactly what we both needed.

Mary had no idea how much time had lapsed when she thought she heard Matthew sigh in his sleep. She couldn't be sure - because she couldn't be sure of anything between them anymore - but she thought he had said something, just one word, and it sounded like her name. She could have been mistaken, but it sounded like he whispered, "Mary."

First Steps – July –The Train – Matthew's POV

Matthew found himself yelling at Mary before he could even help it. He was ashamed of himself for displaying such vulgar manors. He didn't want to sound like he was accusing her of a crime. But every nerve in his aching body was set on fire by seeing her while in his raw state. A part of Matthew also felt immense relief that she wasn't keeping the newspaper as a memento. He didn't like to think of the celebrations out of context regarding the end of the war. For so long it had just been men suffering and to include women, children and all relations for every soldier taxed his already overly burdened mind and seriously broke his fragile heart. Mary should not concern herself with such matters. Better she stay happy and free, away from them.

But would Mary really do a word-cross puzzle? The irony was so bitter. Mary was a word cross puzzle herself, and he had none of the answers. He had never understood a single moment in her presence - why she made him feel more alive, more alert, and more himself than any other person he had ever known. It as a cruel reality, but he could never allow this feeling to return. He did not deserve Mary. Matthew knew his tone was a little too sharp but he couldn't control himself properly. He felt a laundry list of stressful ailments assaulting him, causing a necessary economy of his limited energy. So he remained silent.

"Do you think it's not lady like to do a word cross?" Mary challenged him. He felt a sad anger that she couldn't bear to look at him. He was a disappointment to her, obviously. How could he answer such a question as the one she had just posed to him? Matthew had done word-cross puzzles years ago when he had free time, when he had been a free man, before war and the life of a soldier had consumed him. But he would never have connected the puzzle hidden in a newspaper to something that would interest her. He was secretly pleased. Suddenly, he was lost in a memory that consumed him.

Matthew remembered being propped up with pillows in his bed in the hospital by Mary so they could play a proper game of chess. He had grown bored and restless with her usual task of reading aloud to him. Matthew knew it was childish to sulk, but he couldn't help it. He was sad and sore and he felt cast away from the rest of the world. It was a horrible irony to him that he was paralyzed, his legs numb, because the rest of him had never felt more alive as the pain in his heart spread like wildfire. So, when she appeared with the chess pieces from her father's private collection, he had been moved practically to blubbering. She had given him no choice, only a challenge that he couldn't beat her. And so they had played three games, two of which he won. Soon after his second victory his eyelids grew heavy and exhaustion claimed him. He had rested peacefully without a sleeping draught for the first time since his arrival. The over-taxation of his mind had calmed his restless body, it seemed. And it was Mary that had given him that release. She always knew somehow just what to do and how to cure him.

Matthew shook his head realizing the inappropriate reflection of his being so lost in thought. He was always embarrassing himself, and she was no longer interested in saving him. This was quite right. He didn't deserve it anyway. Perhaps this was a good development; he could see that Mary's world was not infected, that her fiancée was not trapped in the past and had no war wounds, visible or invisible, for her to have to worry over. Why did it always have to be so complicated when it came to Mary? He should just answer her and not labor over each and every question. It was rather ridiculous. He was rather ridiculous. Just say something already, he berated himself. Anything you fool! Spit it out! And words came out of him suddenly, although they were not what he had expected.

"Forgive me," he said and then his mouth opened to speak again but nothing happened.

"I'm rather out of sorts…" and his speech trailed off again.

Matthew knew where he stood with her now, at least. She was justifiably mortified, no doubt, about his presence, his fatigued appearance being a far cry from her crowd of acquiesces in London. Although he had tried to just be a gentleman and act as her chaperone in the station, everything he did caused further strife between them. When he purchased the tickets, assumptions were made about their common last name. And when the train was delayed she had used their extra time to mock his outward appearance and suggested he pay to have his shoes shined. Matthew knew he was never good enough for her, but he couldn't help but, once again, feel the sting of being called out as the poor relation. That she cared about such trivial things vexed him.

These crystal clear assertions had started with his reception at Rosamund's house. Mary had made several snide comments about wanting to hear about "Peace Day" from a soldier's point of view. But before he could fumble for a response, she had changed the topic to lavishing him with praise for having responded so promptly to her father's telegram. This was how he knew his temper was about to boil and his mood was not to be trusted as an accurate barometer for any future circumstances he was to face with Mary. For when she had appeared before him in her modest train clothes, he felt a surge of memories strike him. He didn't want to stand on a train platform with her again. Leave me just that moment, he wanted to plead. Why must everything be undone? For the sake of whatever sanity he still processed, he had to push them aside, bury them, and even hide the shovel from his conscious mind. He had a task, a mission that was all. After all, he was just a soldier as she had pointed out. He was just following orders.

But when they had finally taken their seats on the train, Matthew started to worry he couldn't keep his guard up. He felt every nerve in his body betray him as the tension grew and the stress built. He could smell Mary's perfume, a sweet peony essence. Matthew closed his eyes briefly because just the simple, familiar scent made him feel better. But there was no way he deserved this simple treat.

Matthew had no desire to look out at the landscape of London, for it was a city that had always seemed to make a liar out of him. It was where he had met Lavinia and been convinced of her love, of their love. London had been her city, her home. It didn't feel appropriate to share the place with thoughts of Mary. Looking across the train aisle towards the opposite window he could see the river Thames. Matthew saw the familiar building of St. Thomas Hospital, a place that also held further secrets. For as much as he would enjoy returning to that place, it was an indulgence that now seemed impossible. Last spring during his recovery when his back's healing had left him in agony, his mother had arranged for him to have massage therapy there. While the process helped immensely to soothe the aches in his inflamed spinal muscles, the declaration he had made now seemed even more inappropriate then it had then. While in a transcendent release from the pain of his massage, the doctor had asked him about his fiancée, and Matthew's mind had betrayed him. He had slipped and said Mary's name when he knew perfectly well he should have said Lavinia's. At every turn and every chance he had never been the gentleman he had tried to be in his adult existence.

"Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia," Mary said. Her voice was rather loud and impatient to his ringing ears.

"What?" Matthew found himself saying, rather peeved at her interrupting his thoughts. Sometimes being interrupted was a blessing in disguise, but that didn't stop the turmoil from churning inside him. The nausea in his stomach was not being helped by the train's unsteady rocking either. He couldn't help but sometimes press his fingers into the tension in his aching head; not to ease the stress, but to distract himself from his other complaints.

"Give me a four letter word for a river in Russia." The way Mary tapped her pen against the paper sent a shiver through him. Matthew thought of Mary on one of her country rides that the aristocracy loved so much, hunting and gathering the weak prey that didn't stand a chance. It was very silly, but he had a sudden image of her loading a gun and firing the kill shot. She would have made a much better soldier than he had been.

No, he had to tell himself. Forget all that, forget everything. Dig deeper and bury everything. Answer the question now – she will pester you until you complete her task, after all.

Russia. River. Four Letters.

Matthew felt a jaw-cracking yawn upon him unexpectedly. He was so exhausted, so tired and weary. He knew there were many times in the trenches when he was sleep-deprived for days, many times following his father's death that he had a sleep deficient, and there were many further incidences following his injury when he could not make his brain turn off and allow him rest. However, as his current lethargy was hitting him, he stretched his aching body and rubbed his pounding head, feeling the need for sleep more pronounced then ever before. He would have to surrender to it soon; he was defeated.

"Well," Matthew said after another long pause. "The Neva?" he offered weakly. Another whiff of Mary's perfume assaulted him. God, he was tired, his stomach was hurting, and he ached everywhere. Yesterday had been a cathartic day and the ramifications were still impacting him. He stretched his legs and felt his posture slump in his seat, but he didn't care. He had absolutely no energy left to battle his weariness.

"That is all I can think of," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, my head is pounding I'm going to close my eyes now. I hope that helps …" Matthew wanted to say her name but he didn't feel he could bear it. He had never deserved to let the name once more come off his lips so heated with his own ill-timed passion. If he said her name from his lips now - lips that had pressed against her own last spring, the lips that wanted to press against her now despite everything else that told him it was wrong. If he said her name, it would bring it all out again. So, he couldn't say her name.

"...you," he finished.

And Matthew gave in to the darkness and closed his eyes. It did not take long for sleep to claim him. But it did not feel like sleep; it felt more like descending into purgatory.

Matthew was on a, wooden toy boat: the same object he had earlier picked up for a small child in the train station. He felt the ocean's rough waves batter him back and forth. The Thames flowed backwards and transformed into the River Styx. Matthew looked up into the bleak sky to see a circling albatross hiding between the dark clouds. Suddenly an anchor appeared and moored the wooden boat into calmer water, Matthew looked out onto the deck for the first time. The boat was now harbored safely. In the distance he saw another boat drop anchor next to his own. The sun was shining and he could feel the warmth reach out and grasp him securely. He could just barely make out the writing on the side of the boat – it was a name, and he read it out loud, whispering the word reverently.

MARY.

The next chapter of First Steps in August finds Matthew reflecting on William Mason. He remembers celebrating William's last birthday together in France before the battle of Amiens. While in the cemetery he meets an expected visitor who has also come to pay her respects.

Thanks for reading!