A/N: *opens the door* surprise! im home! so sorry that this has taken awhile. big hugs to apollo as usual, seriously dont understand how my writing is dealt with to be honest. im writing another story...and im open to sugesstions and ideas :) Enjoy!

P. x

Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, Massachusetts. Mid February 1935. 9.30am

Next to the headline that Richard Hauptmann was sentenced to death by the electric chair, was a small article to the left reporting about a sudden death that had occurred the day before.

Judge Robert Crawley, Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court, was found dead at his home in the early hours of yesterday morning (February 12th); exactly a year to the day since the death of his wife, Cora. Police in Cambridge are treating the death as suspicious and are appealing for any witnesses…

Matthew placed the newspaper down slowly and sighed. He got up and scratched his forehead, going over to the window and staring blankly onto the street outside. He reached into his inside pocket for his cigarettes, then cursed that he didn't have any. Since allowing Clara into his life, he'd tried to quit the habit, with varying degrees of failure. This was another one of those days where he had sworn off smoking yet again.

He turned away from the window and paced around the room, his thoughts on his daughter, and the woman who was currently acting as her governess. He didn't think Mary was very close to her father, but the man was still her father, and she would likely be mourning in some fashion. More importantly though, the suspicious circumstances of the Judge's death raised even more concerns. No one moved against a judge unless they had very good reason to do so. It was surely a professional kill, and since Matthew hadn't done it, that reduced the list of possible murderers to a miniscule number.

He closed his eyes and thought back to that night, the night at the bar where he saw the Judge sitting with Charles Blake. The night when he met Mary for the first time. He had shown up wanting to shadow Blake a bit, then followed Mary to that small room, on the pretence of grilling her for information, then forgetting her. The past months had all been a whirlwind, with more storms to come, it seemed, and yet Mary wasn't trouble to him. She was one of the few good things he had going right now.

He frowned as a knock on the door stirred him from his thoughts. He went to the door and glanced through the peephole, blinking in surprise at what he saw.

"Mary!" he exclaimed, opening the door to let her in. He stared at her in shock as she walked past him and into the room. "What are you doing here?" he asked, closing the door and locking it.

"And hello to you, too," she replied, turning to face him and arching her eyebrow playfully. "You take me to your bed and now afterwards this is the kind of greeting I get?"

"Well, Henry did interrupt us, so I suppose I should be more polite to you," he replied. He shook his head and became more serious. "Mary, you should really be with your family."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. "What family? My Mother died a year ago, my sisters won't speak to me; my Grandmother is just about the only person I have left now."

"Then go be with your Grandmother," he suggested.

"Have you met my Grandmother, Matthew?" she asked.

"Several times," he confirmed. "She's actually with my Mother as we speak. Henry and I went to see them to discuss all that's been going on."

"Small world," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Well, my Grandmother won't be mourning. She disowned my Father some years ago when he became involved with Charles Blake."

"But she trusts you more than she did your Father, apparently, if you're still close," he noted.

Mary cleared her throat. "Yes, she does. She taught me that we Crawley women need to stick together, though not all of us have heeded that lesson."

He nodded, relaxing slightly and coming towards her.

"My condolences, Mary, truly," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her gently.

"Thank you," she said, nodding her head. "Please tell me you have some idea of what's going on. I knew that my Father was up to…many extracurricular activities…but to have someone kill him…"

"That's not confirmed, yet," he said.

She glared at him.

He sighed. "All right. I do have some idea, and I think so do you, you just don't want to believe it."

She stepped out of his hold and turned away, shaking her head and rubbing her arms nervously.

"Why would Charles want my Father dead?" she asked quietly, her back to him. "They were allies, weren't they?"

"Perhaps your father was squeezing Charles, for money, favours, what have you," he suggested, approaching her slowly. "He was behind the abduction of Atticus, which means he was in league with Richard Carlisle, who is now dead. The other Families know this. They also know that Atticus was rescued by Henry, which means they all assume that he gave up the names of Charles' men and contacts to the authorities. Doing business with Charles right now is messy and complicated, and no one likes messy and complicated. So, either your father did something to anger him, or Charles is acting out, trying to show he still has power and isn't afraid to use it. Regardless, he's becoming even more dangerous than I originally suspected."

She turned around to look at him, her eyes narrow, her lips pursed.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He frowned and looked away for a moment.

"I need to get Clara out of there, away from him," he said. "I can't do anything until that's done."

"If you remove her, he'll know, and he'll hold me responsible," she said.

"Yes, which is why I need to get you away from him too," he said, looking at her seriously.

She frowned at him. "What are you saying?" she demanded.

"Mary, life with me is…complicated…and messy…and dangerous. I can't make you any promises, but I…I want you with me," he said.

"Goodness, Matthew," she said, looking at him as though he had two heads. "Is this a proposal?"

He smiled and took her hand in his.

"I know better than to try and tie you down," he said warmly. "First, I want you and Clara safe. Then, once I've dealt with Charles, we can take our time, get to know each other, see if this is right, if it's what you want."

She looked down demurely, then smiled cautiously at him.

"Besides, I'm in the market for an etiquette tutor, you know," he said, smirking as he pulled her close.

She laughed and sat down on the sofa with him.

An abandoned wearhouse, South Lawndale, Chicago, Illinois. Early November 1934

"Oh Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy," Matthew taunted in a singsong voice as he walked around the young man, who was hung upside down, his feet bound to a rope tied to the ceiling. "My, my, what trouble have we got ourselves into now?"

Jimmy grunted, the blood rushing to ears was becoming unbearable. "Please let me down! I'll tell you anything you want to know!"

Matthew whistled and tutted, clenching the bloodied knuckle duster into his palm. "You know I can't do that Jimmy. You see, just by appearing on Chicago soil made you a dead man, but when they told me what you were looking for- well. Frankly, I'm amazed that they kept you alive while I was travelling here"

"Please, Mr Crawley, Sir!" Jimmy begged. "Blake doesn't have to know a thing."

Matthew laughed bitterly, pushing Jimmy away from him, making the young man scream in pain; he caught him and punched Blake's henchman in the stomach twice, making him cough and groan.

"Tell me why you came to Chicago Jimmy? Were you sent to follow me?" Matthew said, taking off the knuckle duster and placing it on a nearby table before standing in front of Jimmy once more.

"Yes!" Jimmy shouted desperately. "Blake sent me, he'd heard through the grapevine that you were doing work for The Outfit."

"So he sent you to find me? And why would Charles Blake care what I was up to? Unless, he was hoping that you would catch me off guard and kill me?" Matthew said, factly as Jimmy whimpered. "Am I right?"

"Yes!" Jimmy shouted.

"Then tell me this, considering you're so clever," Matthew said sarcastically. "You could have killed me back in Boston, you've had so many chances. Why now?"

Jimmy grunted. "Look Blake may not be the brightest spark in the box but he certainly knows when something isn't right."

Matthew scratched his chin. "Is this relevant Jimmy? Because I'm getting bored."

Jimmy felt sick. "A couple of years ago, Blake found a letter. He didn't seem happy when he'd read it, it was something to do with his late wife and the middle child."

Matthew's ears perked at the mention of Madeline and the child, their child. He suddenly became intrigued. "Go on."

Jimmy coughed. "He…he went nuts. When I arrived at the house the next morning, he was raving and screaming, saying how he was going to kill you, how he was going to teach you not to fuck with him."

Matthew's mind spun. He thought he was protecting Clara by leaving her with Blake, letting her stay there under Mary's care. As long as Charles assumed she was his, he wouldn't do anything to her. This was the reason behind why he hadn't seen so much of her; why Mary was so cautious about where and when he met Clara. Charles knew.

"Can you let me down now?" Jimmy protested weakly, swinging to try and free himself.

Matthew tapped his chin. "One more thing. Madeline. Were you there? When she died?"

"No!" Jimmy shouted with laboured breathing.

Matthew pulled a flick knife out from his pocket and held it at Jimmy's throat. "Wrong answer." He growled.

Jimmy sobbed. "I was there! I was there, okay!"

Matthew growled, reaching up to cut the rope around Jimmy's feet. The young man met the ground with a thud, Matthew turned away to the nearby table, placing the knife next to his knuckle duster and pulled on some leather gloves.

"What happened Jimmy?" He said, picking up a revolver from the table, before walking over to Jimmy and standing over him.

"I don't know." The young man whimpered, now more terrified with a gun pointed at his forehead.

"Last chance," Matthew said, cocking the hammer of the gun.

"It was Blake! I don't know how, but it was him!" Jimmy babbled.

Matthew's eyes bulged. He had suspected it, but now to hear it said out loud…

"Jimmy," Matthew said coldly. "Don't let me see you again, and don't even think of showing your face in Boston."

Matthew slammed the gun into the man's temple, knocking him out cold.

Home of Matthew Crawley, Boston, Massachusetts. Mid February 1935. Noon

"Matthew," Mary whispered, shaking him gently.

He blinked several times and opened his eyes, focusing on her concerned face, then glancing around, realizing they were lying together on the couch.

"Mary," he mumbled.

"We nodded off," she said, sitting up and looking at him carefully. "I heard you talking in your sleep and you woke me up."

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting up and closing his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I sometimes have…dreams."

"Nightmares?" she asked, putting her hand on his knee.

He shook his head and smiled at her.

"No, just not very pleasant ones," he said. "But, I plan on having much better ones soon."

He leaned over and kissed her softly.