Sleep is nowhere near for neither Mary nor Matthew that night.
Matthew lies down on his bed, his leg and his heart both aching. Should he have stayed? Mary didn't want him there, but she had never so easily abandoned him… To see her in such a state was more terrifying than his own horrifying flashbacks. Mary had always been so calm, so collected, so even-tempered, and so brave that he can hardly believe she could feel the same sort of fear. What was it? What set her off? He tries to think back to the events of the day, cursing his forgetfulness and obliviousness. After all these months of attempting to suppress memories, he suppresses them far too easily.
Mary had not spoken much, aside from the beginning. When had she gone quiet? He remembers introducing Mary to Grace, and then having to mention… the magazine. Deflecting the attention away from Mary's scandal. How could he have forgotten? Of course that would be difficult for Mary to hear.
In some ways, Matthew thinks, Mary is just as haunted by her past as he is; she is simply much better at hiding it.
His heart breaks for her. For so long, she has been strong for him, and he could not even manage to return the same courtesy to her. He wants nothing more than to go to her, to be there for her as she was for him, but he fears upsetting her further. And yet… it does no good for her to be alone.
He is paralyzed by indecision, unable to find the will to disturb her again but desperately wishing to be able to comfort her in whatever caused her distress.
They could not have been more than ten meters apart, and yet the chasm between him and Mary feels uncrossable. At least… he feels that he cannot cross it.
Mary does not even bother to lie down, for she knows that sleep will not come. Part of her feels horribly embarrassed, to have broken down like that, to have allowed Matthew to witness it. And yet, part of her wishes that he had not listened to her so well, that he had not left. If anything, it may comfort her to have him beside her.
Is she too proud? Is she too afraid? Is she utterly incapable of being vulnerable? Perhaps that is her failing; she can never ask for help because she would rather everyone think she needs no help.
But why should that apply to Matthew?
She is torn between wanting him desperately and feeling an irrational anger toward him: an anger for his flirting, or at least for his acquiescence towards flirting, an anger for his intrusion that frightened her so, an anger towards him for being so perfectly gentle and understanding as she broke down. That is not how it is supposed to be; she is supposed to be the one caring for him, bringing him out of his deepest fears. Hasn't he suffered far more than she could ever imagine? And yet, he must save her from her own memories? Mary cannot abide the thought. She deserves this, doesn't she? It shouldn't be Matthew's responsibility to pick her up from the mess that she created. And she hates him for being so willing, so glad, so open to her regardless of her past.
And yet, she needs him. Desperately. This is something she cannot deny. And he wouldn't mind, really. Why else would he have come into her room before? Matthew would never intentionally do something like that to frighten her. So as awful as it makes her feel, to be needy, she will indulge herself.
She probably will not sleep tonight. But she'll be much happier by his side.
Mary knocks on the door before opening it- not knocking was probably Matthew's biggest mistake just hours before- and enters the room, eagerly. He is lying down, but clearly not asleep either. His bright eyes find her as she enters, but he can barely get a few words out before Mary is on the other side of the bed. She leans down to kiss him. She has no words, only the movement of her lips on his. She prays it is a language he understands.
Matthew raises his eyebrows in surprise at the first contact, but his initial surprise melts away as Mary continues, desperately, frantically, and Matthew cannot help but sink into her touch, anything he wanted to say melting away in comparison to her soft lips. He never wants it to end, this blissful touch, but he also doesn't understand.
He only understands when he feels her hot tears on his cheek.
"Mary, Mary," he whispers, still in contact with her lips. He puts his hands on her shoulders and carefully guides her to lie down next to him, although her head lands on his chest. "I'm…" he begins, and his tongue falters without the words to comfort her. Perhaps his tongue speaks more intelligently when in contact with hers, for in that one kiss, she communicated to him so much more than he can even comprehend in that moment; her world of pain, her affections, her desperation, her need for love.
Mary doesn't say anything. She blinks back the tears that seem to be escaping her rapidly and listens to his heart beating in his chest; she can hear the rhythm accelerate. Even before, they had never quite been as close, as connected as this. But she needs it, she cannot move from him. His arm comes around her shoulder and she reaches her hand up to clasp his, taking comfort from the squeeze he gives her.
There is nothing but the sound of their breathing, Mary's choked and labored from the tears spilling from her eyes, Matthew's calmer, but still struggling to keep consistent pace.
Finally Mary, her voice thick, murmurs, "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Matthew replies quickly.
"I feel…" Mary licks her lips and turns her head so she faces away from him, unable to look him in the eye. "I feel absolutely ridiculous for what happened back there, and that must have disturbed you so for something so stupid, and then I mistreated you and I… I saw Pamuk… it was a moment of weakness, but I promise I won't…"
"Mary, Mary," he whispers, craning his neck to kiss the top of her head. "You are not weak, or stupid, or ridiculous. Not by any stretch of the imagination. How many times have you seen me in a similar state? For God's sake, you had to stop me from…" his voice falters, unable to speak out loud the darkest moment of his life. He blinks and turns his head away as well, swallowing as if it could rid him of the memory. "Anyway, you have no reason to be ashamed. If anyone understands, it would be me."
Mary presses her lips together and sighs. "You went through so much more, though, and your fears and memories are justified and understandable. They have a clinical diagnosis for your reaction to what you have suffered; your reaction, while perhaps difficult for yourself, has a recognizable basis. What about me? A man comes into my room, which shouldn't have been a shock after I so brazenly flirted with him, and years later I break down in response to anything even vaguely similar. You must admit, that is rather ridiculous."
"My darling," he replies, the term of endearment rolling of his tongue more easily than he ever could have expected, "you suffered trauma. Different than what I experienced, yes, but trauma all the same. You were young and naive, and a man took advantage of that and let you blame yourself for years, and now the tabloids blame you, and on top of it, you carried his dead body across the house which would disturb any human with feeling. To have that all dragged up again… You are not unjustified in your reaction. You are a human, and your heart has been damaged, and some people seek to use your brokenness for their own gain which only makes things worse, and you do not deserve this."
Should this be a relief for Mary to hear? It goes against everything she has been telling herself for the past months, everything that she has tried her hardest to believe. "Matthew, you don't understand, I didn't tell Pamuk…"
"You do not deserve this," he interrupts, repeating himself more firmly.
I deserve this. I deserve this. Mary's own words of attempted consolation fill her head. She begins to feel numb. She must be numb, or she will break down again, and that she cannot allow. The cold and careful Lady Mary Crawley does not cry. "You mistake me. I don't have a heart to be scarred." She pulls away from Matthew, unable to keep touching him and still believe what she must believe in order to stay numb.
Matthew tries to reach out for her, but she pulls away. "Mary," he says, his lips struggling to say something that will help, only able to make her name come. He sighs heavily and tries to turn on his side to be closer to her, but such a position is too uncomfortable for him to hold. "Mary, I know it's hard for you to admit you've been a victim. You want to believe that you alone are responsible for your fate. But there are so many things outside of our control. The war was outside of our control, societal expectations are out of our control, even the coming storm is out of our control. And when we are not in charge, we can easily become victims. I am a victim of the war. It broke me, physically and mentally, and the mental damage is far harder to accept because I'd like to believe I'm entirely in control of my mind. But I'm not, not always. I probably never will be. And now that I'm starting to accept that, it's getting better, little by little. I don't deserve this, I don't deserve to be haunted by the things I've done and the things I've seen. I've killed, yes, I've done awful things, but I was a pawn in a bigger scheme, never acting of my own free will. I would never… none of that I would choose to do. My trauma is not direct punishment for what I've chosen to do, for I lacked control of the circumstances. What could I have done? Stayed home and been labeled a traitor and coward, which is damaging in its own right, or rebelled and been shot by my own men? No, I had to do what I had to do in France, and now I'm living with the consequences that maybe I don't necessarily deserve. I was a perpetrator of a pointless war and yet… in some ways, I'm a victim of it. And if I can justify a semblance of innocence after all this—and Mary, I've killed men like me, or men with families, with children, and that is still weighing on me heavily—then you can do the same."
Mary turned over onto her stomach, her breaths shallow, to look him in the eye. "Oh Matthew, you…"
"You were a victim of a cruel man who had no regard for your reputation, your modesty, and your heart. You could not have stopped him from coming to your bedroom, and from what you've told me and what I know of the house, you could not have easily sent him away if he was not willing to go. That in itself is a violation, and then to violate your body…"
"Matthew, please," Mary whispers, cringing. "Don't… don't speak anymore. I can't relive it, I just can't…"
He acquiesces, closing his mouth. He brings a hand to her back and rubs it comfortingly. "You don't deserve this. You are justified in any brokenness you might experience. We are not that different in that, you and I."
Mary is silent for a long moment, taking in the feeling of his hand over her back. This is so much to process, so much to take in, and even despite his words, her old self chatters in the back of her mind. I deserve this. I deserve this.
But, Mary reasons, Matthew understands her in this better than anyone. He didn't know all the details of the incident and perhaps he still doesn't, but his faith in her innocence in the matter almost makes her believe it. She buries her face in the pillow, unwilling to reveal again the tears that prick at her eyes. He rubs a gentle hand on her back, and while at first she instinctively wants to pull away, still shaken from her intrusive memories and afraid of any sort of intimacy, she relaxes into his touch. It is pure and gentle and so Matthew… no other man could comfort her in this way.
Finally Mary looks up from the pillow, hoping her emotions are under control. "You seem so confident in all of this," she whispers. "I'm envious of your faith."
Matthew shakes his head. "Not at all. This is what you've taught me, I'm simply relaying the message back to you."
"The student has become the teacher then," she remarks, trying to sound flippant, although the feelings coursing throughout her are anything but.
"I suppose so," he replies.
Mary closes her eyes and expels a breath. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I was a victim. Maybe I don't deserve this after all. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I do."
"It takes time." He shakes his head and laughs, although there is little humor behind the sound. "It takes months and months of convincing, and even then, you're still broken from everything. But maybe… maybe you can become less broken."
She reaches out for his hand. "Less broken, hmm? That's better than nothing."
"For me, at least, it's been everything," he whispers. "I'm alive today because of you, and I can never repay that debt. The least I can do is be there for you, especially since I've frightened you so."
Mary shakes her head. "No, no, don't be sorry for that. I should have expected you to come in."
"I was wondering why you hadn't bothered to come to me, what I had done to make you so put out with me. I suppose now it makes more sense; what Grace said about your story must have been difficult to…"
A hearty laugh escapes Mary's lips. "Oh Matthew, no, that wasn't…"
"What then?"
"Oh God, Matthew, I… I was mad because Grace was flirting with you, and you seemed to respond so positively to it," Mary says, a little sheepish but also amused.
Matthew raises his eyebrows. "Was she really? Oh Mary, I never would have… you know I love you and only you. I can't say I noticed her flirting, I thought she was just being friendly, you know…"
"You are the most oblivious man I have ever met," Mary teases, rolling over again onto her back with a grin. "Of course she was flirting with you, how could you have missed it?"
He shakes his head. "I… I don't understand. Why would she even want to?"
"Why wouldn't she? You're intelligent, charming, lovely to talk to, and probably one of the most handsome men she's seen in a while. And you're genuinely kind even in the midst of everything, a trait that many lack. There's no reason a woman wouldn't want to flirt with you… although I rather prefer to have you to myself."
This is apparently news to Matthew. "I never thought… I can't believe, even after everything she saw with my shellshock and all… Mary, you clearly overestimate my charms."
Mary rolls her eyes, but she cannot hide a smile. "Are you saying I have bad taste?"
"Oh Mary, I just… after Lavinia, I never thought I could be with anyone," he says quietly. "I never thought anyone would want to be with me again. So I guess any attention like that is completely foreign to me at the moment. But I hope you weren't jealous."
"Me? Jealous? Of course I was, why else would I have avoided you so. I probably had no right to be, we've no formal standing, but…"
"Are we in need of formal standing?" Matthew interrupts.
Mary shrugs, pushing up further on the pillows. "Eventually, don't you think? Is that not where we're headed, toward marriage? Of course if you want to explore other more lucrative prospects, I would understand, although I would be heartbroken, but of course I'm damaged goods so… Matthew?"
He has frozen up at the idea, his eyes glassy and watery, staring at the ceiling without any mercy. His lips work, trying to speak, but nothing comes out.
"What's wrong?" Mary whispers, afraid that he has gone into a flashback again.
He blinks, staring up at her. "It's just…" he starts, finally, "it's just, the idea of marriage is so hard for me to comprehend at the moment. I was ready to marry Lavinia and you saw how well that worked. Mary, I love you, and I want you to someday be my wife, don't worry about that, but I need more time."
Mary tries to understand but now that the idea has been suggested, she suddenly wants nothing more than to marry Matthew, right in the moment if necessary. A marriage would dismiss many of the brutal rumors surrounding her, and it would allow them to be together whenever they wanted, and it would confirm to the world what they both knew to be true. But if Matthew wasn't ready… "Why do you say that?"
"For one, your lot requires a huge wedding ceremony, and I'm afraid I'm not up for that. I would almost certainly break down in front of that sort of crowd. For another… as much of my life as I've shared with you, I hate the idea of tying you down with me when I'm still struggling so much. I believe I'll continue to improve, but I really do need time for that to happen. I can't explain all of why I need to take my time, as I hardly understand most of my feelings, but can you bear with me?"
Mary presses her cheek to his. "I'll wait," she whispers into his ear. "After all, it's not as if I have many offers forthcoming."
"I'm sure you could find someone else. Go to America, find a group of millionaire single men, I'm sure at least three of them would fall head over heels for you," he jokes.
"Why? How would you know that? Do you believe a man in possession of a great fortune must be in want of a wife?"
He smiles, the tension from a moment ago relieved in a way that only their shared love of literature can do. "Not necessarily, but I do happen to know how thoroughly enchanting you are, and I cannot imagine that any man would not fall immediately in love with you."
Mary rolls her eyes, but they crinkle up in silent laughter. "I could say the same about you. No wonder you've had your share of female attention."
"Oh Mary, I'm so sorry about that, I didn't even realize or understand and… I'm an idiot. A proper, oblivious idiot."
"I won't dispute that, but I must say, it's rather charming on you. Even though I didn't appreciate it today. But now we can laugh about it. It's alright."
Matthew closes his eyes. "Is it? Sometimes, I feel like after everything, it's wrong to find humor in such things, when the problems of the world seem so much bigger. I think about how so many were robbed of the opportunity to ever smile or laugh again. The hard things seem to overwhelm the few good."
"You must laugh. For them, for all of them who don't get the opportunity. Don't waste your life because they no longer have theirs; to do so would be disrespectful. Smile, laugh, be happy. Allow yourself to be happy. You've been punished enough; you're right to find joy in the small things," she says.
"And you're right to feel like a victim, to feel hurt for what happened to you, to feel like you don't deserve it," he replies, holding her gaze.
"I suppose we both still have some learning to do."
Matthew bites his lip. "We do."
"But we also have…"
A sudden flash lights up the room, and Matthew freezes instantly. Mary drops off the end of her sentence to reach for his hand, knowing what is about to come. As the thunder rolls a few seconds later, she squeezes his hand tightly, trying to distract him.
He shakes for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open and his eyes staring at the ceiling, then squeezing shut, trying to avoid the memories. He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, hardly breathes. Another flash of lighting brightens the room, and Mary can see how terrified he is. His mind is not in Scotland.
As the thunder sounds again, Mary instinctively leans toward him. Maybe she just wants to guard him from his fears, or maybe she believes that being close to him will allow him to remember where he is.
Inevitably, however, her lips end up touching his. She wasn't planning on kissing him, and as soon as she realizes what she is doing, she pulls away from him. How does she know he would want this? She may traumatize him further. She knows the feeling of an unwanted kiss.
But Matthew opens his eyes, and in another flash of lightning, she sees his tears but also his desperation. He pulls her toward her again, whispering, "Stay, please," voice cracking the sound of thunder invades his mind again.
So she kisses him, tenderly, as the weather outside mimics the guns that scarred him so badly. She keeps her cheek next to his, her breathing steadying his racing heart. Every kiss seems to make the thunder a little less loud, the lightning a little less jarring.
He is hardly conscious of his own actions during the storm, drifting between an awareness of her lips on his and a feeling of being back in the hell of the trenches, hearing gunshots and seeing explosions flash before his eyes. Every thunderclap sends him across the channel, and every kiss brings him back. He is in limbo, floating between awareness and oblivion, longing for peace and for Mary's touch to continue forever. She is holding him together, keeping him grounded, and he doesn't know what he would do without her.
The storm drifts away, none too soon, and Mary has her head on his chest, dozing lightly. He must have fallen asleep as well, because he cannot remember the end of the thunder but the only sound now is soft raindrops against the window and Mary's steady breathing.
He doesn't want to wake her, but she is pressed up against his arm so that it has fallen asleep, and as he tries to shift gently in order to release the feeling of pins and needles, her eyes open, blinking up at him.
"It's over," she says, after listening in the silence for a few minutes. She sits up slightly and Matthew frees his arm. "Are you alright?" she asks in concern, gently running her finger over the residue of tear tracks on his cheek.
"Yes, I'm alright," he says softly. "I told you there was a storm coming." The joke is weak but he smiles as he says it.
"Did you?" she replies, relieved that his demons have not manifested themselves so terribly tonight.
He smirks. "On the ride home from the hospital. You weren't listening to me." He bites his lip as soon as he says it, well aware of the hard memories what he said could bring up.
"Perhaps I ought to pay you more attention," she says, after swallowing and trying to clear her mind of the other event so the day.
He smirks, breathing out a sigh of relief. As she moves her face closer to his, he brushes a stray hair out of the way. "Perhaps you should."
She lays down again, moving in closer to him, their cheeks touching and their bodies nearly overlapping. "I'm going to miss this," she whispers. "Once we go back."
"It won't be forever."
"What won't be forever? Are you insinuating that my need for you will fade quickly away?"
He laughs, knowing that she is not serious. This is what he loves so much about being with her; they can talk about everything and nothing, and banter and argue in good fun as much as they like. Never has he found a more pleasant conversation partner. "No, of course not. In fact, I'm hoping it does the opposite. I hope that desire lasts forever. I would be the luckiest man in the world to have that."
"In that case, you are the luckiest man in the world."
Thanks for reading! This was probably one of my favorite chapters to write. Updates may be a little more sporadic from now on since I'm now writing as I go (which I was hoping to be able to avoid, but oh well). Anyway, reviews are very nice and motivating... Thanks again!