The Great Bath

Accounts of Mary Crawley

He had long since returned to his former body shape, if a little less fat, and a little more hewn, than before the war. Although it was irreparably different than before. There were scars, plenty of them, all over his torso, and even in the places that weren't marked, patches of skin, tough as hide could be felt underneath her warm touch. But she had gotten used to them, learned to admire them even. They were ugly to be sure and Matthew was quite ashamed of them.

It took every trick that Mary had to let her bathe him with a sponge. And every time, Matthew would try and make excuses as to why he didn't need a bath. But of course, he did. It was a matter of trust. And learning to trust again was much harder than rekindling their feelings for each other. But Mary was persistent in that signature way that was at once infuriating and adorable to Matthew, so of course he relented.

It was a tentative arrangement at first. There was something very odd about seeing Lady Mary Crawley on her knees as Matthew sat, still like a king upon a throne as she scrubbed his battle scars. He had never seen her so submissive before. He dared not think that he liked it.

In truth, he didn't much like it. He didn't like the feeling of uselessness that accompanied the pampering. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees as Mary, switched position to sit behind him and go over his back. It was odd because Mary seemed to be quite enjoying herself. Perhaps a little more than she should have. Her touch lingered upon his skin half a moment longer, always giving Matthew pause, always causing him to wonder if he was supposed to turn around and look at her.

He could see her hands tremble as they wrapped around his waist. She always shook more when she knew that he could see her. She placed one hand on his chest and used the other to gently massage his abdomen with warm soap water. Her hand leaned against the back of his neck as she did so. Was she even cleaning him? Matthew shivered as her warm breath caressed his spine. This was becoming something else. This had become something else.

Matthew's hands, as if by their own volition shot up from their resting position and clasped themselves over Mary's. The moment of shock overtook and and in her stunned state she remained motionless for as long as she felt she could get away with it.

She withdrew her hands quickly from him when she felt the moment had passed. He turned around to look at her. Their eyes met. He stared at her with wonderment. She returned with a gaze of consternation, worry, and (not so) hidden desire.

"I'm… I'm sorry," Mary stuttered nervously.

"No, it was me," Matthew said in just as awkward a manner. "I shouldn't have grabbed your hands like that."

"It's quite alright, Matthew," Mary said. "I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable," Matthew said earnestly.

"Even still," Mary said as she averted her eyes. "That was far too close."

"Perhaps, it would be best if I bathed myself from now on," Matthew suggested.

Mary's gaze shot back up. She looked as if she were almost disappointed.

"But what of your wounds?" Mary asked, affecting as much genuine concern as she could muster in her voice.

"They are healed, Mary," Matthew said. "I know they are hideous. But they do not hurt anymore and they are a part of me now."

"I know that," Mary said as her brow furrowed slightly.

"Of course you do," Matthew said as he leaned forward and place a gentle kiss on her forehead.

He got up, grabbed his shirt, and threw it on. Mary felt deflated, as if she had let Matthew down because she had gotten nervous. It had been happening more and more recently. Perhaps, it was because they had grown closer over the months or perhaps it was because he was, little by little, returning to his former self. His sleep patterns were improving and even during the nights where they did not share a bed, he rarely woke up anymore. He could almost completely walk without his cane now and his mood was, if still a little melancholy, steady.

Mary wasn't naive, she knew what this was and it was sinful. Funny, how such things had never mattered much to her before the war. Her virtue was a matter of pride and power, rather something that she felt guilt for. She knew little of the actual workings of carnal pleasure but she knew her own urges. The way that Pamuk had excited her then was the way that Matthew excited her now. But this was different, this was something else. It was difficult enough to disentangle her guilt over the incident with the Turk from her thoughts of Matthew but beyond that, her primal physical attraction to Matthew felt different. It mattered to her, it worried her, what they experienced and how they did. It worried her to think that he may not want her or that he would find her repugnant. Which, she would concede, was a ridiculous notion as she was self-aware enough to know her own beauty and her effect on men around her. But nevertheless, it worried her dearly.

She watched him as he hobbled his way out the front door. He usually took a walk after their baths so that he could feel the air upon his fresh skin. She would usually join him. Not this time.

Accounts of Mary and Matthew Crawley

Her favourite was the way his back flexed as he took off his shirt. It involved his upper body. She loved the way his shoulders would strain and push, his biceps, elongate and contract, as he slid the shirt from his torso. She shouldn't be watching. It was wrong and it was a violation of his privacy. But what did it matter now? She had practically seen all of him now every a month of bathing him. She had seen the cracks on his feet, the scars on his shins, the remains of shrapnel on his sides, the bullet wound in his right arm, the reason why he had written her so little for nearly three months last year. She remembered the first time she saw it. It was gruesome and it took all of her to not completely break down in front of him. It was better now, although still very much there and she suspected it would always be.

Mary had finally agreed to let him use her bath after a week's worth of pestering and debates. Matthew had insisted that he was well enough to bathe on his own and Mary half-heartedly tried to disagree. Truthfully, he had been able to bathe himself for quite a while now. But Mary was instinctually overprotective of him and didn't want him to slip and fall. The memory of her mother's accident still somewhat haunted her. But mostly, she just missed the intimacy that came with touching him and cleaning him. Even if it was getting a little too intimate.

Eventually, Mary had to relent as she knew as well as he did that her position was untenable. She couldn't very well delay him from bathing himself forever. He would eventually heal. This seemed like as good a time as any and he seemed eager. Still, that didn't mean she couldn't watch over him as he did so, making sure that should he fall, she would be right there to help him.

It was strange seeing him from a far. True, she had seen his naked body before but not like this. She had never see the full view from a distance, as if he were a painting. It almost escaped her notice as he turned his head to look at her. She immediately looked away in embarrassment. It did little to assuage her of the feeling, she was still standing there in the doorframe, with no reason to be there other than to look.

Matthew carefully sank into the tub of hot water before looking back at her and asking, "Mary?"

"I'm sorry," Mary said meekly, still averting her gaze. "I… I… didn't… I'm sorry for staring."

"Mary, it's fine," Matthew said soothingly. "You've seen every part of my body by now."

"Still… it was inappropriate," Mary said.

"Mary… what's wrong?" Matthew asked.

"I suppose… I suppose I miss bathing you, ridiculous, I know," Mary said as she turned red with embarrassment.

"No, it's not ridiculous," Matthew said understandingly as he held out his hand for her. "Come, sit by me. If we're going to talk, I'd rather you have closer."

"I don't think I should…" Mary said with much consternation in her voice.

"Mary, are we not beyond all of that by now?" Matthew asked.

Mary relented and took a seat next to the tub. She observed him as he sloppily scrubbed himself down. He wasn't very thoroughly.

"You call that cleaning?" Mary asked with a bit of a chuckle.

"What?" Matthew asked. "I'm already clean."

"You're filthy!" Mary replied.

"I am clean!" Matthew protested. "There's no spot of dirt on me."

"That's a soldier's definition of clean," Mary said as she rolled up her sleeves. "And that simply won't do here."

And without even asking permission she cupped her hands, dipped them into the water, and drizzled it over his torso. Matthew watched her as she began to massage his chest. He did not stop her. Why would he would? There was nothing more sweet in life than the touch of Mary's hands. Even if she was disgusted by his body, he loved hers, every part of hers.

Before the idea had the chance to solidify into a thought in his mind, he had taken her by the hand and dragged her into the tub with him, causing her to flail around frantically, kicking up water and soaking her dress.

"Matthew!? Are you insane?" Mary screamed in a rage.

But that anger was short lived as she wiped her wet her from her eyes and saw him staring back at her adoringly. He had a wore dumb grin upon his face, that despite her frustration with suddenly being soaking wet, she couldn't help but fawn at. He was so beautiful when wet. She was too.

"Matthew…" she repeated, this time with nothing but tentativeness in her voice.

"I know…" Matthew said without saying. "I can't help it."

"Is it wrong?" Mary asked.

"Do you feel it is wrong?" Matthew asked back.

"Yes," Mary answered. "And no…"

"Then?" Matthew asked.

Mary grabbed the soap off of the dish and gently placed it on his chest. She began drawing little circles leaving little trails of soap on its wake. Mary then dropped the soap into the water and began to rub him with her hands, gently at first, then with more and more pressure, pushing a groan out of his lungs.

"Then, I will do whatever you ask of me," Mary whispered. "Remember, you are my king. Your wish is my command."

Her eyes caught his. There was a sudden deviousness in her gaze. Mary continued the process of cleaning him, pouring water over his chest until all of the soap and washed away. And that's when she felt it. It was rather sudden, or maybe it was just that she didn't notice until it began rock hard. For that's what it felt like, a rock. She was surprised, she didn't realize that men could get so hard. It seemed impossible that something made of blood and flesh could harden into something so solid.

And just as her attention was being drawn away to what lay behind her, he sat up, and grabbed her by the shoulders. Matthew looked up at her with a worried expression.

"Mary… if you have any reservations, and I swear, I won't blame you if you do," Matthew said. "Please, get out now. I'm sorry for dragging you in. For I won't be able to control myself in a few moments."

"That doesn't sound like the Matthew Crawley I know," Mary replied to deviously, surprising him a little.

"I want you, Mary," Matthew whispered desperately.

Mary pushed him back down by his shoulders. She began to unbutton her blouse. Matthew instinctually averted his eyes for fear of turning into a rabid animal at the sight of her in such a state. It was only after he saw her blouse fall to the floor beside him and by the her guiding hand did he finally return his eyes to her. She was magnificent. An ivory goddess sat before him, offering herself to him. What had he done to deserve such a gift?

Mary leaned forward and kissed him gently. He responded by sitting up, grabbing her by her wet hair, and forcing her to tilt her head back. He frantically kissed her neck down to her collarbone. His other hand reached down into the water and guide himself into her. Her eyes shot open in a mixture of terror and excitement. She hadn't felt this in years, immediately memories of Pamuk shot back into her memories. But she quickly quashed them, Not this, not now. She was with the man she loved more than life itself. And if this be her one chance, to feel him, to know him, to know all of him, then another man couldn't occupy her mind.

He was much bigger than she expected. She had trouble sitting down on him. It was only after Matthew's hand pressed against the small of her back, causing her entire torso to bend and arch forward did she fully take him in. She instinctively let out a moan and then another and another. She couldn't stop and with every thrust they only got louder. What were these sounds she was making? She had never heard them before. She had never dreamed that she would hear such wanton depraved noises come from her. Yet hearing herself only aroused her more.

She began to buck to his rhythm. If this was to be her only chance with him, for he would surely leave her after the truth about her first lover came out, then she would enjoy the moment and committed to the deepest vaults of her memory. She would know love, and what it was to be loved, truly and fully. If she had to say goodbye to Matthew, this would be her parting gift to him.

She rode him hard and fast, pushing her hands against his shoulders, digging her nails into his skin. A part of her wanted to scar him, the war could take most of his body, but she would have hers. A part of him will always be hers. She could hear the moans come out of him. She could feel him stiffen even more. She knew what was to come and she could feel it within herself as well, a sensation that she had never known before but was overwhelming her now. Her mind told her to stop, this was too scary, but her spirit never wanted to let go. It was for the best as Matthew's hands, pinned against her hips, forcing them to grind back and forth seemed to have no intention of letting her slow down to stop. They continued, with greater speed and even more intensity, splashing water everywhere, causing the floorboards to creek, and possibly even scaring the wildlife with their licentious screams, until they reached the heights of ecstasy. There was a moment between them, frozen in time, where they had become one.

She collapsed on top of him, breathless and still glowing from her trip to heaven. She felt his warm and comforting arms wrap around her. They were truly one now.

It was a shame that they to be torn asunder.

Remember me Matthew, and I know that I have never loved as I have loved you.

A/N: Hmmm... what a coincidence... Also I flicked the M switch on, so don't worry. I did remember.