A/N: Back again with more happily married M/M antics! Sort of...

For this chapter, I feel I need to explain something of my usual writing method, which I departed from somewhat here. Now, I have enormous admiration for people who include themes and motifs and symmetry and clever things like that into fics, because really, I don't. My method tends to be sit, write, see what comes out. I normally have an idea of how I want a chapter to go, like scenes, but for the most part I just sort of let it happen. For this chapter, though, I got an idea, and I decided to try to be 'clever' and actually 'do' something. My goodness, it made it more complicated! But anyway, I tried. I hope it's worked, and I hope you'll appreciate it!

Thank you so much for all your encouragement for this fic, and a special thank you to EOlivet for her enormous help talking baby names and word choices! :D

Enjoy...!

Chapter Fourteen

It was finally happening.

Mary had been terrified at first. Hadn't wanted to believe it. She'd been reading over Matthew's last letter, quietly by the windowsill, taking the weight off her feet for a few minutes. Everything had been aching so much! In the bedroom, she'd eased her feet up onto the chaise and sighed deeply with the sweet relief from pressure.

In all honesty, she should have been expecting it. She had been, really, she'd known – known it must come soon. Clarkson and Isobel had both warned her well enough, and she knew… but had been unwilling to accept it. She supposed she was scared. The prospect of it had been looming so large, for so long, that she'd sort of fallen into a state of blissful denial… Almost convincing herself that she could just go on as she was; it might never happen after all.

But then it did.

Her heart seemed to stop in her chest as the clenching pain washed over her, and she felt… Oh, Lord. For a few moments she was motionless, unable to rouse any movement, trembling fiercely where she sat until she accepted that she must do something, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

Without being quite sure how she mustered the strength, she was up, ringing the bell, running (oh, she should not run!) out into the hall to call for whoever might be nearby.

Isobel heard, and appeared at the foot of the stairs.

"Mary?" she called up.

"Isobel, I –" Mary gripped the banister, her other hand falling instinctively to her belly. Her voice was breathless, panicky. "I think, it's time – the baby!"

Thank goodness Isobel was there. Within minutes Mary found herself bundled into bed – oh, they tried to put her in the guest room, saying it would be easier afterwards if she wanted to retire to her own bedroom but no – Matthew wasn't here, so at the very least she could be where she felt closest to him. Clarkson arrived, another nurse arrived, fresh sheets and towels and all sorts of terrifying things Mary didn't want to think about appeared, and then another wave of discomfort hit her, but everyone seemed very calm amongst it all.

Matthew. She needed Matthew – needed the calm reassurance of his hand, his warmth, his presence. She squeezed her eyes shut to the bustle around her and wished, wished so desperately that he was here, until she could almost feel her fingers closing around his hand, could almost smell his scent on the air, could almost taste him on her lips… Oh, why wasn't he here!

It was finally happening.

Matthew had been, frankly, terrified at first – he didn't think that reaction would ever go away when the news came, no matter how long he was out here. Hadn't wanted to believe it. He'd been reading over Mary's last letter, quietly at his little table in the dugout, her photograph propped up just in front of him. It was so good to get off his feet for a moment; it had been a long duty and everything ached so much! Persistent, driving rain over the last few days had turned the trench into a sodden mud-pit, a veritable death trap in itself. He'd pulled his encrusted helmet and jacket off and sank into the chair, sighing deeply with the sweet release from pressure. It was far too much effort to remove his caked, sodden boots.

In all honesty, he should have been expecting it. He had been, really, he'd known – known it must come soon. The Major had warned them well enough, word had been trickling down the line for days now that the Germans were about to move and he knew… but had been unwilling to accept it. He supposed he was scared. The prospect of some action had been looming so large, for so long, that he'd sort of fallen into a state of blissful denial… Almost convincing himself that things could just go on as they were; this stalemate could just continue, it might never happen after all.

But then it did.

His heart seemed to stop in his chest as the message was brought in, he had to read the telegram three times to make sure and he felt… Oh, Lord. For a few moments he remained motionless, unable to rouse any movement, trembling fiercely where he sat until he accepted that he must do something, and then everything seemed to happen at once.

Without being quite sure how he mustered the strength, he was up, shouting orders to send a message back down the wire, running (oh, he should not run in this mud!) out into the trench to call for whoever might be nearby to rouse the idle, exhausted men to action.

The company's Captain heard, and appeared at the corner of the jagged trench line.

"What is it, Crawley?" he called down.

"Captain Jackson, I –" Matthew gripped the rotting planking as the earth shook, his other hand falling instinctively to his gun holster. His voice was breathless, panicky. "News from the intelligence office at last, I think, it's time, Sir – they're making a move!"

A sharp nod. As word spread, the line erupted into a flurry of activity. Guns were readied and men rushed about, getting to their posts through the knee-deep mud, orders were shouted and passed on and carried out as everything made ready. Within minutes Matthew's batman had strapped him into all those extra little bits of kit needed for battle – including that most precious of things, just as vital to Matthew as his pistol and gas mask, which was Mary's little dog charm. With it safely stowed in his pocket, everything at once seemed somehow much calmer amidst the rush. He could face it.

Mary. He needed Mary – needed the calm reassurance of her hand, her warmth, her presence. He squeezed his eyes shut to the bustle around him, breathed deeply and wished, wished so desperately that he was with her, until he could almost feel her fingers closing around his hand, could almost smell her perfume on the air, could almost taste her on his lips… Oh, why must he be here, why couldn't be there, with her!

Really, Mary was quite surprised at how calm she was. At how calm everything was. After the first mad rush, things had settled into a quiet, calm sort of expectancy. And now she was waiting. Just… waiting. Everything was in place, so she was informed, and however frustrating it might be, there was nothing else now to do than just wait.

The pain came in sporadic waves. Mary gasped softly, gritted her teeth, clenched her hand on the sheets… Waited for it to pass. Waited for the next one to come.

She felt as though she had been on this precipice for hours, now, and she wanted to be over it. Over and through and to the other side, and the precious reward of life that would bring. They kept telling her it would be soon, it couldn't be long now… It was unbearable, agonising.

Looking down at herself, her fingers clutched idly, distractedly at her nightgown.

"Come on, Baby… Hurry up, and let's get this over with," she murmured, agitation hovering on her tone.

As if that could make it come any quicker.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, she blinked up at the bed canopy. Concentrating on each breath, she knew that was all she could keep doing… In, and out… In, and out, again and again, the regular pattern of it soothing and calming her. She could do this… She'd been through it all in her head; she knew the plan, the drill… Isobel had been over it and over it, and she knew it all very well in theory but now it was happening, and – another breath in, another breath out.

Her gaze shifted to the window, out, and up. Where was Matthew, what was he doing? She wondered if he was thinking of her. Though he'd said he always would be, he surely couldn't mean every moment, but… it would be so very nice if he was, at this moment, whatever his situation.

Standing in the trench with one foot on the firestep, Matthew was quite surprised at how calm he was. At how calm everything was. After the first mad rush when the orders came, things had settled into a quiet, calm sort of expectancy. And now he was (they all were) waiting. Just… waiting. Everything was in place, so he was informed, and however frustrating it might be, there was nothing else now to do than just wait.

That familiar fear came in sporadic waves. Matthew gasped softly, gritted his teeth, clenched his fingers around the cold reassurance of his pistol… Waited for it to pass. Waited for the next one to come. Just as every man there was doing.

He felt as though he had been on this precipice for hours, now, and he wanted to be over it. Over and through and to the other side, preferably still alive. They kept saying it would be soon, it couldn't be long now… It was unbearable, agonising.

Looking down at the sturdy watch in his hand, he distractedly watched the seconds tick by, waiting, waiting... At least the shells had stopped now, that meant it couldn't be long. Not long at all, now.

"Come on, you bastards… Hurry up, and let's get this over with," he muttered under his breath, agitation hovering on his tone.

As if that could make it come any quicker.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, he blinked up at the overcast sky above him. Concentrating on each breath, he knew that was all he could keep doing… In, and out… Watching his breath swirl and cool into visible little clouds in the cold air. In, and out, again and again, the regular pattern of it soothing and calming him. He could do this… He'd been through it all in his head; he knew the plan, the drill… Hold them back, that was all they needed to do. Kill enough of them to stop the advance, take some alive if they could. Hold the line. Major Anderson had been over it and over it, and he knew it all very well in theory but now it was happening, and – another breath in… another breath out.

His gaze shifted to the horizon, out, and up. Where precisely was Mary, at this moment, what was she doing? He wondered if she was thinking of him. He liked to think (no, needed to think) that she was. Though she'd said she always would be, she surely couldn't mean every moment, but… it would be so very comforting if she was, at this moment, whatever her situation.

With one final, reassuring squeeze of the little dog in his pocket, he looked down again at the watch. The seconds ticked by, just a few more… Deafening silence seemed to cling to the air, along with the stench of fear and anticipation. He couldn't think of that.

Three… Two… One… Now. Clenching the whistle between his teeth he gave a long, sharp blast, and threw himself over the top with a roar that was lost in the breaking cacophony around him.

Another scream tore from between Mary's clenched teeth, and her hands gripped fiercely at the sweat-drenched linen of the sheets. Everything seemed like chaos, blood and things she didn't want to think of, all clamouring in some giant, devastating mess around her.

Beside her, Isobel's attempts at reassurance were cutting through the fog of her awareness, awareness that was just blinding, searing pain.

"Keep breathing, Mary, that's it – you're getting there, it can't go on much longer now –"

"Just push through, Lady Mary," Clarkson barked at her. Mary would've risen and slapped him if she were capable of it. "You're doing a fine job, we're nearly there."

Mary gasped sharply. "I hope," she bit out, "for your sake, that you're right." She trembled with pain, and all of it at this moment was focussed into hatred at the arrogant man at the foot of her bed, whom she decided to blame entirely for this.

A moment's respite, a moment's calm, as that wave of pain subsided. She heaved in ragged breaths, her entire body tensed in readiness for the next.

Matthew… Oh, what she wouldn't give for him to be here, for it to be his hand she was clutching in a bruising grip rather than his poor, dear mother's. Her eyes squeezed shut and she pictured him; then she gritted her teeth, sucked in a breath as once more her own piercing scream drowned out any other thought.

Gunshots cracked through the damp air, the rapid rattle of machine guns, the pounding of heavy footfalls as men swarmed over the broken landscape toward the advancing enemy. The cacophony of sound was punctuated by screams and thuds and sickening cracks as men fell to the ground.

Another yell of adrenaline tore from between Matthew's clenched teeth, and his hand gripped fiercely, desperately on his pistol. His free arm was flung up in front of his eyes as he ran, carried on running, his heart thudding in time with the pounding of his boots as he peered through the smoke at his target and fired another shot. A grim look of satisfaction flitted over his face as one more dropped to the ground. Everything was chaos, devastation, blood and things he didn't want to think of, all clamouring in some giant mess around him. It was too much to concentrate on and yet that was all he could do, focus, focus on another step, another target, another shot.

Somewhere beside him, Captain Jackson's vain attempts at reassurance were cutting through the fog of his awareness, awareness that was just blinding fear, adrenaline pushing through exhaustion, deafening shouts and shots…

"Keep going, boys, that's it – you're getting there, it can't go on much longer now –"

"Just push through, lads!" Another officer dimly barked. Matthew almost laughed. If only it were that simple! Matthew would've sought him out and punched him if only the small matter of advancing Germans were not so pressing. "You're doing a fine job, we're nearly there!"

Matthew gasped sharply as a bullet whistled past his ear, nicking the edge of it under the lip of his helmet. Panting with shock he dived into a shell-hole, landing on his front with a loud thud that knocked the breath out of him. He was motionless, scared, trying desperately not to think about how if that bullet had been even an inch to the right...

"I hope," he bit out under his breath, "for your sake, that you're right." He lay trembling with fear, pain, exhaustion, and all of it at this moment was focussed into hatred at the bastard troops in their spiked helmets ahead of him, whom he decided to blame entirely for this.

A moment's respite, a moment's calm, as that wave of fear subsided. He had to go on, there was nothing else for it. Just push on, push through… If he believed that the outcome of this somehow depended on him, that he were not just a miniscule, insignificant pawn in these war games, he could go on… He heaved in ragged breaths, his entire body rigid and tensed as he pushed himself to his knees, then his feet, in readiness for the next wave of attack.

Mary… Oh, what he wouldn't give to be with her, for it to be her hand he was clutching in a desperate grip rather than the cold, hard metal of his pistol. His eyes squeezed shut and he pictured her; then he gritted his teeth, sucked in a breath as once more his own deafening roar drowned out any other thought and he scrambled back out and over into the melee.

Thank God the end was in sight. Mary leaned forwards, feeling cold sweat pool down her back, and concentrated every ounce of strength into following Clarkson's steady instructions.

So close, she was so close, with one final burst of effort and pain, her cry ringing loud in the stillness of the room… she was there.

As Mary slumped weakly back against the pillows, watching as a nurse swept the wonderfully screaming little bundle that must be her baby away, her eyes closed in an exhausted smile. Isobel rubbed her shoulder soothingly as she recovered. It was over, thank God it was over and she'd made it through, though she hardly knew how…

Eventually, her eyes blinked wearily open. In the corner of the bedroom she could see Isobel and Clarkson in conversation, but at her gentle cough they turned. Clarkson watched as Isobel approached her, a tenderly wrapped bundle in her arms.

"I think you shall want to see this, Mary dear," she said softly. From the doorway, Clarkson caught her eye, nodded his approval, and left them.

Mary pushed herself up a little straighter, and gasped with fondness as Isobel placed the tiny child so gently into her arms.

"Oh…"

All the pain, all the exhaustion, the long hours of it, was instantly forgotten as Mary stared down at her baby, her lips swiftly curling into an irrepressible smile of joy. Lifting a hand to wipe away an errant tear, she blinked up at Isobel.

"I – didn't hear if anyone said, what –"

"A little girl," Isobel smiled.

"Oh," was all Mary could muster, and she gazed down again at… her daughter. Not even the notion to be disappointed with that occurred to her. It was the very least of her concerns.

When Isobel slipped out a moment later, to tell the waiting family downstairs the news, Mary didn't even notice.

She had a daughter. She and Matthew had a daughter. Mary felt as though her heart would burst with love. Oh, she was perfect… Tentatively, Mary reached out one finger and tickled at the tiny babe's chest, laughing delightedly when a tiny, tiny hand grasped at her. She was dimly aware of tears tracing a path down her cheeks, and she clutched her perfect little girl tenderly as she wept. She wept with happiness, delight, love, and sorrow, that her darling Matthew was not with her to experience this wonder.

Thank God the end was in sight; Matthew could see the line ahead of him now, the welcome sight of the rotten trench that was his safety. He leaned forwards as he ran; feeling the hard reassurance of his boots pounding the earth, feeling cold sweat pool down his back, and concentrated every ounce of strength into following his orders. The task was done, they'd driven them back, now he just had to get back in one piece damn it…

So close, he was so close, with one final burst of effort and pain as shots rang out around mingling with his own shouts in the chaos of retreating men… he was there.

Vaulting with practised ease over the parapet and into the trench, Matthew slumped weakly back in relief against its rotting side. Watching as the wounded were swept away by stretcher-bearers, trying desperately to block out the sound of their agonised screams, his eyes closed for a moment in an exhausted prayer of thanks, for one more successful run. Major Anderson (he'd made it back, too, then) clapped him on the shoulder with a companionable nod as he passed down the line. It was over, thank God it was over and he'd made it through, though he hardly knew how…

One moment's more rest, then his eyes blinked wearily open. He pushed himself more properly to his feet, and staggered back down the line to his dugout, the going painfully slow in the chaotic aftermath of battle. At last he reached his haven, where he found his batman Davis already back and sitting at the little desk where the telephone was.

"Back in one piece Sir?" he smiled.

"Just about, thanks," Matthew grinned ruefully, touching a hand gingerly to his ear which was still bleeding profusely. "I'll get this seen to once the others have been dealt with."

"Right. I – think you shall want to see this, it just came down the wire for you."

"Oh?" Matthew frowned as Davis held out the scrap of paper to him, and scanned it quickly.

"Congratulations, Sir," Davis smiled softly as he saw realisation dawn on Matthew's face.

His expression slackened and he gripped the paper tightly, trying to stop his hands shaking as he stared at it, read it again, the words seeming to blur into each other even as they leapt from the discoloured strip.

Lt. M. Crawley, Duke of Manc's Own. Thrilled to report Miss Mabel Violet Crawley born at 9am this morning. Baby in good health, and Mary, promises to write soon. Mrs I. Crawley.

"Thank you," he breathed, and staggered outside, craving air. His chest felt tight, unbearably tight, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think…

God, he was a father. They had a daughter. Oh, God.

Blankly, Matthew looked around him. He was a father. All around him was devastation. Death. Blood. Destruction. He choked back a sob, as the joy in his heart battled against his pride in Mary, oh his darling Mary, and his sorrow that he was here, in this, and that such things existed in the world when back in England, in his house, his home… his darling wife had just brought their child into the world.

He stared at the paper again. Life, such a precious little life. Bloody hell, he had nearly died out there today, just as his daughter had been taking her first breath. So many had.

It had begun to rain again. Matthew turned his face up to it, as he sank back against the wall of the trench. He was shaking, from cold, exhaustion, disbelief… His eyes closed and he felt the cold, persistent drizzle stream down his face, through the dirt and the blood, mingling with tears that he wasn't aware were falling.

As the rain seemed to cleanse him, he felt an overwhelming sense of love blossom in his chest and spread, slowly smothering his perception of everything else, healing him.

Mary, his darling, darling Mary, had given him a daughter. In that moment his love for her swelled greater than it ever had. And amidst all this, everything here, all that was rotten and broken and horrific, back at home he had a daughter. He put the precious slip of paper into his pocket, where his fingers closed around Mary's charm.

And he felt a light – of hope, of love – spring in his chest.

TBC

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd been looking forward to this chapter for AGES. Feedback of course is always enormously appreciated, but I'd particularly appreciate it in this instance because I was so unsure of the 'mirroring' scenes concept, whether it would actually work - so I'd absolutely love to know what you thought! Trying to achieve something distinct was quite an interesting, and difficult, experience for me! So any comments will be enormously appreciated. Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed it, and thank you!