A/N:Happy Remembrance Day, everyone! Not Downton Day anymore, though. :( Hopefully this somewhat softens the blow of the first day without a new episode.

Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! Many thanks also to Willa Dedalus for letting me ramble on and being a wonderful support.

Enjoy!

Chapter 36

The air in their bedroom was humid, almost stifling, despite the chill of winter's onset.

Mary let out another helpless groan as she felt his tongue slip inside her, the vibrations of his own aroused moans sending waves of sensation all the way down to her toes. Leaning forward, she grasped onto his thighs as an anchor, balancing herself as she undulated over him.

Matthew's eyes flew open as he felt pressure on his legs and hips - Mary's hands, sliding so gloriously over the slick material of his pajama trousers. He knew it, though all he could see was the graceful line of her back, her long, lustrous waves loose around her shoulders. Just little pin-pricks and a hint of warmth, so easily dismissed as imagination or wishful thinking...and he did so want it to be real.

Mary shuddered above him, and he knew she was getting close. The movement of her hips became increasingly erratic, and he redoubled his efforts, sucking gently, then firmly, on her swollen folds until she cried his name in ecstasy. His hands firmly gripped her hips as she rode out her pleasure, almost unwilling to relinquish their intimate connection once she had peaked. He placed one last kiss on her slippery core before allowing her to move.

Feeling unequal to anything more than simply flopping down onto the bed, Mary did just that. She rested her head on her husband's thigh and slowly traced one foot up and down his arm, relishing his sweet little sighs as he continued to breathe heavily for several minutes. Once sufficiently recovered, Mary curled up in her usual place beside him and pulled the blankets around them. His arms encircled her, and she couldn't stop herself from crawling over him for another kiss. She moaned as she recognized her own flavor on his mouth.

"Darling," she gasped out between kisses, "I'm terribly selfish and greedy, but...I already want to do that again."

"Mmmm...Then come here."

Another sigh, and she placed herself completely over him, rubbing her body tantalizingly against his bare torso. She whimpered as his hands come up to cup her breasts, massaging each firmly before raising his head to take, first one, then the other hardened tip into his mouth. His fingers brushed teasingly over her center, and she saw stars. In only moments, she collapsed over him in delicious lethargy.

"God, Mary..." His breath was hot against her neck. The desire and the love in his whispered endearments warmed her heart. He was too good to her.

"I have been terribly selfish tonight, my love. I should let you sleep."

"No," he reassured her, reaching up to take her pleasure-flushed face between his hands. "No, darling, please don't ever hide your desires from me. You don't know how good it makes me feel...that you still want me."

"You don't know how good you make me feel," Mary purred, smiling suggestively down at him. "Thank you."

"Thank you, Mary. Thank you for making me feel like a man again."

Mary shook her head fondly at his unlooked-for gratitude. As he if couldn't see how selfish she truly was.

"Matthew, you didn't need me to do that. Don't be ridiculous."

Knowing it was futile to argue, Matthew only chuckled as she tucked her head under his chin, holding her tightly against his side.

The next morning, Mary helped Matthew back into his pajama shirt and rang for Bates while she sipped on the tea Anna had brought her.

"You could stay and have breakfast in bed with me this morning," she suggested with a flirtatious smile as she ran her fingers through his rumpled hair.

"As tempting as that sounds, darling, I promised your father we could go over some things this morning. There's been a dispute between two of the tenants, and he wants to discuss possible solutions. We also need to formulate a plan for shutting down the convalescent home in an orderly manner."

"So it's decided then. You couldn't convince Papa to keep it open?"

"I'm afraid not," Matthew answered, frowning slightly. "But, he does have a point. It isn't our house yet."

Mary pursed her lips tightly before prying them apart to take another sip of her tea. She knew Matthew and her father hadn't seen eye to eye on more than one occasion, and it concerned her. Both men were special to her. It wasn't easy to have to take sides. With the end of the war, Matthew had been talking about the great changes that were coming and the need for modernization and keeping up with the times. Her father was somewhat less than thrilled that his pupil seemed to have a great many ideas of his own.

Bates entered before there could be any further discussion, and Matthew leaned over to give her a soft kiss on the cheek before allowing the valet to lift him into his chair. Almost as soon as Matthew was seated, a pained hiss escaped him as a sudden surge of sensation engulfed his lower body in a million tiny pin-pricks.

"Are you alright, Captain Crawley?" Bates asked, placing a concerned hand on Matthew's shoulder.

"Yes, fine," Matthew answered tensely as he gritted his teeth through the worst of the discomfort.

Mary studied his face as he blinked rapidly and the muscles of his jaw worked under his flushed skin. He'd been evading her requests to know what had been bothering him for over a week, and she had taken as many of his denials as she was able to tolerate.

"Bates, please leave us."

"Yes, milady."

Matthew opened his mouth to protest, but one glance from Mary was enough for him to shut it again. He mentally cursed himself for not being able to hide his reaction from her. He didn't want Mary to be worried for him, nor did he want to have to try to explain what he was experiencing. If he said it aloud - if he dared voice his hopes aloud - that would make them more real, more undeniable. And, if nothing ever came of them, he wouldn't be the only one disappointed. More than anything else, he didn't want to be a disappointment to Mary.

As soon as the door closed behind Bates, Mary spoke, her tone calm, yet firm.

"Matthew, I don't think you can reasonably deny that something's been bothering you anymore."

"It really is nothing, Mary. Nothing," he retorted, rubbing his tense forehead with the pads of his fingers.

"It didn't sound like nothing," she shot back, sitting up a little straighter against the headboard.

"My darling, I'm asking you...to trust me. It's nothing."

"You're the one who said you wanted us to always be open and honest with one another. Or was it that you only wanted me to be an open book? because you seem to have very little intention of following your own directive."

Discreetly, Matthew squeezed his thighs a little, trying to get any reaction or any of the fleeting tingles or twinges he'd been experiencing, but there was nothing.

"Mary, I'm not going to argue about this. I'm sure it's only the...the many changes that have been happening recently. That's all."

"I don't think you're being honest with me," Mary shot back, at her wit's end with his evasions and excuses.

"You are, in no way, entitled to lecture me about honesty, Mary." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, but he felt the remorse hit as soon as they were said. Looking down at his lap, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, wanting to apologize, though a part of him still wanted to defend his position. What right did she have to be put out with him for keeping something from her when she had kept something of much greater importance from him for months on end, asking him to make a life-altering decision on the basis of incomplete information? No, she certainly didn't have any right to lecture him on honesty. It might be uncharitable of him, but it was the truth.

Mary was stunned. She blinked rapidly several times, trying to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing that his words had upset her.

"I cannot believe you...I thought you had forgiven me, that you understood. I see now that I was mistaken. You lied to me too."

"I..." he began, feeling too frustrated and even slightly guilty to argue further. "I have to meet your father soon."

With that, he wheeled himself to his dressing room and shut the door, leaving his frustrated and hurt wife open-mouthed in his wake.

The morning dragged by for both of them. Mary forced herself to remain composed enough to eat a few bites of her breakfast and to put on a brave face while Anna helped her dress, but she spent most of the morning sitting on the bench outside, an open book on her lap so that she could say she was reading if anyone were to happen by. She wasn't sure if she should be angry at Matthew, disappointed in him, or simply terribly hurt by his lack of trust. Of course, she didn't deserve what faith he did have in her, but it still hurt that, though he'd said that he had forgiven her, he clearly hadn't forgotten.

As for Matthew, he spent breakfast with Robert picking at his food and pretending to listen to Robert's cheerful chatter about nothing he could remember and fending off Sybil's gentle questions about how he was feeling. Sweet Sybil. She was so wonderfully perceptive; like her elder sister, he though.

After breakfast, he allowed Robert to push him into the private library where he mainly listened absently to the noise of the officers at their pastimes as Robert went on about investments. He knew he probably should be paying more attention, but something inside him had gone numb, and he couldn't seem to retrieve it.

When the tenants arrived to plead their cases before Lord Grantham, his attention was briefly engaged enough to offer his opinion of what should be done. It was a small, too-brief distraction from the stress his fight with Mary had caused, but it was enough to get him through the rest of the morning. When Robert placed him before the desk with an open ledger, however, his mind was free to wander once again. His companion had seated himself with an agricultural journal, so, save for a few unknown voices from the other side of the screens, the room was quiet. Even Puck and Isis were uncharacteristically silent, both curled up asleep on the rug.

For several minutes, he worked diligently on the figures before him, grateful that he had something with which to occupy his mind. He was headed for a meltdown. He could feel it building inside him; a deep emptiness and an irrational feeling of panic churned deep in his belly. His mind began to numb, the numbers on the page no longer held meaning. He knew he should ask Robert to fetch Mary, but how could he see her after what had passed between them?

A part of him felt great remorse for the things he had said to her, while another part - the part that was trying desperately to make him completely numb - wanted to be angry, to lash out at her for mistrusting him when she had done so much worse. The remorseful part fought back, reminding him that Mary had done what she had out of love; that he should be grateful for her, that he loved her and had forgiven her. Then the angry part would rise up again, telling him that he couldn't trust her, that he shouldn't. There was so little of his old, independent self left. He couldn't risk letting her, or anyone, take that away.

But...he needed her. He needed Mary.

He was weak for her. Matthew hated to be weak. This was war; weakness got men killed. He hated the vulnerable feeling that came with loving and trusting someone who had once violated that trust. And he hated that he didn't have a choice in the matter. Not loving Mary wasn't an option, neither was not trusting her. She was his wife, and, as such, deserved his trust, however difficult it was to give. And she wouldn't let him down. He had to believe that. She would always be there for him.

A dull tingling in his legs started, and he rested his palms on his thighs, trying, as he had during their argument, to be certain that he could feel the touch. Again, he could reach no definite conclusion. As much as he'd fought against them, stirrings of hope had begun to grow inside him. Hope that he might be regaining his ability to feel, to...function. Sometimes he was so sure he could feel things, but other times, he was convinced that it had been only a cruel illusion.

Suddenly, the sadness, the grief, and the shame that had been so blessedly held at bay since Mary's declaration of love came flooding to the forefront again. From there, it wasn't a great leap for his mind to conjure images and emotions pertaining to how he had come to be in his current state. So much fear and hopelessness; so much waste. He was unable to hide the tortured moan that escaped him, alerting Robert to his predicament.

"Matthew, is anything the matter?"

Though Matthew didn't answer, his hunched posture and the way he held his head in his hands, his shoulders quivering with the effort of not crying out, was familiar to Robert. He had seen it before.

Robert sighed, saddened to think that the man he loved as a son still suffered so grievously from the effects of the horror he had been put through. His brow creased as he pondered the terrible injustice of it, that someone as kind and gentle as his son-in-law was made to become violent; that a man who wasn't the slightest bit interested in hunting animals for sport had been forced to hunt human beings. And this man, this loving, tender-hearted person, had been broken inside and out, his future, as he had foreseen it, stripped from him in an instant. Tears clouded the earl's eyes as he stood and made his way to Matthew's side, laying a hand on his trembling shoulder.

Matthew felt the soft touch and focused on it, trying to anchor himself to the present. He was better at this than he used to be - better at retaining control of himself. He was hanging on by a thread, but, at least, he wasn't weeping openly. There was still some shred of dignity remaining in his hunched posture.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he felt himself being moved, his mind replaying images of fleeting moments of consciousness in a crowded ambulance; of shooting pains whenever the vehicle would hit a pothole too fast; of hundreds of tortured moans and the frightening realization that the loudest were his own.

There was a rustle of fabric, and then a soft voice pierced through the ringing in his ears. A small, warm hand covered his own, tugging it away from his face. He opened his eyes, and there she was.

Mary.

"Mary..."

"It's alright now, darling. I'm here."

She stroked his hair as he gradually calmed, his clammy hands wrapping around her free one.

"How long has he been like this?" Mary asked Robert, who was still standing behind Matthew.

"Only a few minutes," the earl answered soberly. "He's been quiet all morning. I should have seen it coming."

"Thank you for bringing him to me, Papa," Mary answered softly, smiling up at her father before turning her attention back to Matthew.

As soon as Robert turned his back to walk back to the house, she seated herself in Matthew's lap and wrapped him in her embrace, her forehead pressed against his temple.

"It's alright. Everything is alright," she whispered soothingly to him as she waited for him to calm, a relieved smile warming her face as he blinked and, suddenly, her Matthew had returned to her.

"Mary," he breathed, his voice quiet and strained. His arms came around her waist, and he turned his face into her fragrant neck, basking in the familiar scent of floral perfume and his own beloved wife. "I'm sorry, darling. I thought I was doing so much better."

"Don't you dare apologize for this," Mary shot back, her tone lovingly chastising. "And you have been doing better. Very, very much better. I'm so proud of you."

Mary tightened her arms around him as she fought back guilty tears. Her poor darling had had a meltdown - his first in weeks - because she had pushed him too hard that morning. Yes, he had said some things that had hurt her deeply; she wouldn't forget that. But she had known better than to push him, and she had anyway. It was obvious that something was weighing on his mind greatly. Oh, how she wished he would confide in her! It hurt deeply that he wouldn't, but, regardless, she would be there for him. He needed her, and she wouldn't let him down.

"I'm so sorry, Mary."

"I told you, don't..."

"No, I mean for this morning," he interrupted, lifting his head to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry for...for what I said. It was wrong of me to bring up the past."

Mary nodded, accepting his apology. She breathed a sigh of relief, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek before extricating herself from his grasp, seating herself more conventionally on the bench next to him.

While she was happy that he had apologized, she couldn't be completely easy with the fact that he still hadn't volunteered any information about what troubled him. For the moment, she decided to let it go, but, for his own sake, she would try again the next day...and the next, and the next, until he was able to open up to her. If trust was something one had to earn, then she would earn his with her constancy.

Late that night when all the house was asleep, Mary drifted in and out of a light slumber as she held Matthew's hand tightly against her heart. His warm body was spooned against hers, his bare chest pressed deliciously against her bare back. She concentrated on each of his soft breaths as they brushed over her ear and soon began to drift off again.

They were outside, walking next to each other as Matthew pushed his bicycle. He was so dear - so wonderfully, boyishly handsome - but she was so deeply frustrated and angry, so maddeningly incapable of righting the injustice that had been done her.

"My life makes me angry, not you..."

A sudden nudge against her leg jolted her from her brief dream, and her eyes shot open. Realizing that there was nothing out of the ordinary, she allowed them to close, relaxing back against Matthew as sleep began its descent once again.

Before she could nod off, however, a perplexing thought intruded, jolting her back to full consciousness. What had awakened her? If she didn't know better, she would have sworn that Matthew had...kicked her. But that was impossible. He couldn't have...

Carefully, so as not to wake him, she reached under the covers and rested her hand on his thigh, stroking and rubbing softly. He stirred and made a little humming noise in his sleep, which could, of course, be attributed to coincidence. Yes, of course, that's what it was. He couldn't possibly...But, then, his leg wasn't in the same position she'd placed it in when she'd helped him turn on his side. Perhaps she had simply shifted in her attempts to get comfortable and caused it to move. That had to be it. Anything else was simply...impossible.

Deciding that she had most certainly dreamt the entire episode - because the alternative was truly unthinkable - Mary lay awake for most of the night, absolutely not waiting for it to happen again.

Things are happening, folks! Matthew may or may not discover the truth in the next chapter. ;) I guess we'll have to wait and see!