Series 3 spec based on some of the spoilers. This is something of a low budget fic but I was determined to finish this before the first ep of S3. It's very late so feel free to let me know some of the errors this thing is sure to be riddled with! I'm much too tired for a proper edit. Happy Downton Day!


Never Had a Friend Like Me

Mary watched in amusement as a hastily crumpled piece of paper bounced off the tip of her shoe. It sailed lazily off the black leather tip, plopped onto the green carpet, and rolled a few extra inches before coming to an underwhelming halt. She looked up, and had to hold back a laugh as a benign glower – "Matthew's scowl," she had recently dubbed it – made an unexpected appearance.

"And what did that poor piece of paper do to deserve such treatment?" she asked with an arch smile.

"Oh, nothing," Matthew mumbled. "Only James has written to say he couldn't make the trip up for the wedding."

"James...?"

"James Templesmith. A friend from my old practice in Manchester." Matthew pursed his lips and looked somewhat flustered, much to Mary's curiosity. "You see, I was hoping he'd…."

"What?" she demanded. Matthew puffed out a breath.

"Oh, nevermind!"

"No, tell me Matthew. What is it?"

The confession came out in an embarrassed rush:

"Iwashopinghe'dagreetobemybestman!"

Mary stood silently by, separating the words till an intelligible sentence formed in her mind, then raised both eyebrows in her version of surprise.

"You mean to say that you haven't chosen a best man yet?" Her eyebrows shifted downwards, hitting that distinctive angle which designated concern. "Matthew, the wedding's only a few days away –"

"I know, Mary. I know." He sighed, clenching his fists to keep his hands from raking through his hair.

"Well," Mary said in soothing tones, "I'm sure one of your other friends making the trip will happily step in."

Matthew laughed nervously. "Yes, yes I...I'm sure one of them will," he said, offering up a brave smile.

Their conversation was cut off as Lady Grantham stepped into the drawing room to discuss with Mary the alterations for the veil, which allowed Matthew a private moment to ruminate.

One of my 'other friends,' he sadly mused. Oh, my darling Mary. How little you know…


Manchester - 1908

Sorry, chap! But I've just gotten word that Maud won't have me gone for such a long period of time – says the children are getting to be quite unmanageable. All the same, hope you have a splendid day, and my best wishes, etc,

Sincerely,

John Campbell –

Matthew set down the letter onto the pile. It looked as though not a single one of his "good friends" from his university days could make the arduous journey to Manchester for what he hoped to be his grand birthday bash.

The special day came and went like any other, and that evening he sat with his mother at the dining table, three tiers of his favorite cake the only consolation to a rather lonely and disappointing day.

But his birthdays hadn't always been such a bore. When Matthew was a boy his father used to take him out to watch a cricket or football match. They'd wear matching scarves with the colors of their favorite teams and engorge themselves on sweets and laughter. If he thought very hard Matthew could nearly replicate the deep, burly rumble in his mind, or feel that tickling sensation on his chin – a much loved consequence of his father's prickly beard and penchant for bear hugs.

He'd died suddenly, when Matthew was very young, leaving him a bereft, scared, and quiet boy who never seemed to fit the mold of a proper rambunctious lad. The other boys duly ignored him, which Matthew decided was quite all right by him, assuring himself constantly that he preferred the staid, comforting company of his mother anyway.

"Happy Birthday, Matthew!" that faithful mother beamed, her face aglow with pride. Matthew had had a rather successful year at his practice, and the mountain of cake and buttercream frosting was a rare and welcome treat – though it was much too large for only two.

"Thank you, mother," Matthew said with a weak smile.


Matthew wandered the grounds. Everything was white and sparkly, adorned with beautiful flowers whose names he could not and never would be able to place.

Lovely, lavish; each detail perfected with that undoubtedly aristocratic touch; his wedding would be an event for the county – nay, for the whole of England – to remember: the heir to the Earl of Grantham wedding that very Earl's oldest daughter. It was like something out of a fairy tale, or perhaps a very predictable novel.

"Matthew!" Lord Grantham bellowed grandiosely from the entryway steps. Matthew made his way over to his future father-in-law, dodging the random people flittering up and down carrying various sized boxes. Low to the ground between them Isis' tail wagged this way and that, clearly excited over the pandemonium going on around her.

They struck up a hearty and congenial conversation. At length Lord Grantham, in his oblivious way, asked, "And is that James fellow going to be your best man?"

"No." Matthew frowned. "It seems he won't be able to make it to the wedding after all."

"A bit of rum luck, I must say." He smiled. "Well, I'm sure there are plenty of others coming – I should know; I've seen the guest list – who would be delighted to take his place. Pick another friend – perhaps one of your colleagues from the practice in Ripon."

Matthew smiled tightly. "Yes, perhaps."


Ripon - 1914

"Everyone finished up for the day?"

Matthew heard the chatter from behind him as he bent over to retrieve a dropped pencil. A few of the paralegals were packing up their belongings, evidently on their way home.

"It's been a long week – anyone else like to drop by the pub?"

"Lucinda will throttle me – but why not? Haven't been out to the pub all month!"

"You can count me in as well!"

"And me!"

Matthew smiled. None of his cousins would like it, but then they weren't exactly thrilled with his stance on gainful employment either. No need to stop disappointing them now. He made his presence known by righting himself, all thoughts of errant pencils forgotten, and turned around.

"Are you all going out to the pub?" he asked, flashing his friendliest smile.

Carter's eyes grew evasive.

"Ah…. no, I don't think so." He forced a laugh. "It is election night after all…. probably best to go straight home, wouldn't you say George?"

"Er…yes. I think I'll just head out and listen to the counting of the votes, then make my way home."

"And Lucinda insisted that I should be home in time for the roast," chimed in Stevens.

His co-workers studiously examined their shoes, the light fixtures, the dusty windowsills – anything and everything that was not Matthew Crawley.

Matthew laughed nervously. "Right, then. Well. I'll see you all tomorrow…?"

"Yes, of course," Carter said in a rush. "Good night, Matthew." They left hurriedly, leaving Matthew behind to go back into his office, slowly gather his belongings, and trudge silently outside.


"What do you mean, you don't have one?"

"I don't have one," Matthew heard an Irish lilt reply just as he entered the drawing room.

"How can you not have a single black tuxedo? Not a shred of proper dinner attire?" The affront this caused the Dowager caused her tone to climb a few notches higher. "Exactly what kind of world are you living in over there? Are there legions of Huns prowling the streets that I should know about?"

Matthew wisely stayed silent, and moved to sit down beside Mary, who exchanged with him one of her Meaningful Looks.

Oh, Granny!

Matthew's eyebrow's danced.

Some might say the same about you.

Mary parried with an eyebrow encore of her own.

Careful. I'll be your bride in a few days and will have quite the bargaining power.

Matthew was just about to retort with a "saucy minx" waggle when he was distracted by a tired voice on the sofa opposite.

"Our lives are very different in Ireland, Granny. We don't change for dinner," Sybil sighed.

The room was grave for a moment as everyone absorbed the offensive information.

"Well." The Dowager's fan cracked open. "Now I've heard everything!"

"It's unacceptable, really," Robert agreed. "Here at Downton we change for dinner, and if you wish to dine with us you will have to do the same."

"Robert, please," Cora said, her tight smile breaching the outer limits of her face. "I'm sure we can survive a few family dinners with Sybil and Tom, even if they aren't dressed as we'd like them."

"I won't have it," Robert boomed, literally putting his foot down. "If they want to stay here they need to learn to conform to our way of doing things. This isn't Dublin!"

The air swarmed with tension, and Matthew noticed the visibly stiff and uncomfortable former chauffeur sitting beside Sybil and clutching each other's hands in a show of solidarity. Branson… Matthew idly thought, though he was determined to call him Tom now, especially after the earful he got from his mother that morning.

Matthew felt rather bad for the chap, a veritable fish out of water. The family certainly wasn't making anything easier for him, and Matthew – well, he knew a little bit about not fitting in….


The Somme – 1916

"Ho, ho, ho!"

"Ha-HA!"

"Her, her, her!"

The laughter ringed about the small circle of officers. A good joke all around, Matthew could see, and he edged closer, hoping to be informed of the punch line.

"Haha, yes, what's all this about?" he asked congenially from the outer rim.

"Hmmmm?" Captain Connelly turned slightly around, just then noticing Matthew's presence. His jovial features immediately relaxed to something more neutral. "Oh, hello there, Crawley. Nothing famous, just a letter that Major Bowler got from his wife."

"Something funny, I take it?"

"Oh, no, nothing of the sort. Nothing but those boring details from home – you know…."

"Yes, of course. Calls and charities and new housemaids."

"Exactly!"

Captain Connelly turned around, an effective closure to their short conversation. As Matthew walked slowly back to his company he could hear them from behind:

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

"Crawley? Of course not! He's not the bawdy sort. I once saw him blush at the mere notion of knickers."

So that was it. Matthew sighed. Army officers were another breed of men altogether, he'd come to find, and he certainly was not one of them.


"You won't be happy with anyone else while Lady Mary walks the earth."

Matthew stared hard at the other man. He took a bracing sip from the tumbler, blue eye piercing into the earnest face in front of him. The words had hit him as a sharpened arrow. They sunk deep within, burrowing down through flesh and bone till the poisoned tip swam through his veins with a slight tingle.

But perhaps that was just the brandy.

"Did you just come up with that?"

Branson started. "What?"

"Well it's all very poetic for something so spur of the moment, and – forgive me – sounds rather rehearsed." He cocked his head and gave Branson a coy smile. "Have you been thinking about that line for awhile?"

Branson laughed a little too sheepishly. "I have tried it a few times in the past. It never seemed to work very well for me, but I thought it might be useful to you."

Matthew chuckled. "Nothing new under the sun, I suppose. But you know, Tom, even if it is a recycled line – I do think you're right."

Mathew put down his glass of brandy and rose from the chair. "I think I'll go see Mary now and try to patch things up."

Branson shook his head. "I think she's already gone up to bed."

"I won't let that stop me," Matthew said boldly. "I've learned that there are some things more important than propriety, wouldn't you say?"

Branson smiled. "I would, Mr. Crawley."

"Please, Tom. Call me Matthew."


The morning before the wedding Matthew awoke with a feeling of butterflies and daffodils. Despite the downpour of emotions the day before, things with Mary had blossomed into something beautiful, to say the least: His lips perched softly against hers, her hair unwound from the tight coiffures of daylight, a slip of a nightgown draped over her pale shoulder….

Yes, he was looking forward to many things, indeed.

And aside from the pleasant turning over of last nights' memories, the new day had also given Matthew a terribly bright idea. Once dressed and fed, he discussed it with Mary:

"And who better than family?" Matthew said excitedly. "My own future wife's sister's husband!"

Mary frowned. "I certainly don't…. disapprove. But you'll have quite a time convincing Papa."

"It's not his wedding."

"But it is his money."

"There are ways around that," Matthew said with a flippant wave. "I'll simply arrange everything before hand and tell him afterwards."

"You mean when it's far too late to alter it?"

"Exactly!"


Branson was usually a trusting man, but he still peered at Matthew with a narrow gaze, perfectly ready to punch or pontificate, whichever the situation required.

"You want me to be your best man?" he asked, incredulous, for while there was no denying it was a nice gesture, Branson hardly knew the man outside of "Hello, Mr. Crawley; Goodbye, Mr. Crawley; To Ripon or Crawley House, Mr. Crawley?"

Matthew only beamed. "Of course! I couldn't think of anyone better."

"Not anyone? There must be someone you'd rather –"

"No. No I'm afraid not." Matthew looked slightly abashed, and Branson could see he would rather dismiss the topic completely; but Branson still felt the need to press the point.

"Your school mates?" he asked.

"Oh," Matthew scoffed. "Those friendships never last! You all move off to different parts of the country, get married, have children, and after a few years it's as though we never knew each other," he finished somewhat bitterly.

"But what about your job? Another lawyer? A friend from your practice?"

"Come now, Branson. It's not very professional to get overly friendly with co-workers."

Branson balked – if that was true then he should have been fired ten times over – but decided to simply let that one slide.

"How about an army friend?" he suggested next. "The people you fought along side with? I'm always hearing about the bonds soldiers make on the battlefield."

Branson saw Matthew clear his throat and – were his eyes deceiving him or was he blushing?

"Well," Matthew laughed. "You know what officers are like. Terribly cliquish, you know."

Branson looked unconvinced, but finally relented. "I'd be happy to do it, Matthew. But are you really sure?"

"Why not? You're here. You're family. And I do need one."

And the way Matthew looked at him just then, not with the eyes of a detached in-law, nor even with the patronizing pity of someone handing down a great favor, but rather with a small glimmer of sadness and eagerness, confirmed to Branson that Matthew did indeed need someone – and not just a best man.

A friend.

Branson smiled. For the first time in a long time he was very much at ease, for these past few days he'd felt rather lonely himself.

I think I need one too.

"All right then, Matthew; I'd be honored to be your best man!"

"Excellent!"

Amidst the swirls of activity and shrieks of last minute arrangements shoulders were clapped and smiles exchanged. Although in a few hours the two would be brothers, over the years they would always mark this moment as when they became friends.

END


So there it is! The crack explanation for why Matthew did not have a good friend to be his best man and had to ask Branson, as well as the jumping point for the teased bromance. Thanks for reading!