Everything is fuzzy when he wakes up. The world seems to spin and he isn't quite attached to it. There's nothing keeping him grounded. Is he floating?
He looks around. Everything is still fuzzy, but at least he can make out the oak tree. He's under the big oak tree, at Downton, by their bench. He's by their bench. But if he's by their bench, then Mary...
Her face emerges over the picture. There she is. His vision is still blurry, but she is a sight to behold. He hears her voice, calling softly, "Matthew, Matthew." The last time her face was so close to his was ...when they had kissed (several times) at Sybil's ball. During the party they escaped onto the patio and kissed. They kissed the night after as well, but that was the last time.
He sees the patio, surrounded by a small but lovely London garden, and there's Mary, standing next to him, half drunk and giggling like he's hardly heard. It doesn't seem like Mary and yet it is wholly, undeniably Mary. She puts an elegant and warm hand on his rougher one and says his name. "Matthew." It's a laugh, probably. It looks like a laugh. He can't tell. His ears are ringing. But the way she smiles... He must have said something funny, and he begins to laugh too. They have the same humor, he's noticed, and when she laughs, it must be something funny.
But it's not funny.
She's in France. Why is she in France? She isn't supposed to be in France. She'll die. She'll be shot by the Germans, or blown up, and he'll never get a chance to redeem himself with her, for treating her so abominably at the garden party. He was stupid and self-righteous and it's alright if he never gets the chance to apologize before the Germans kill him, he deserves it, even if Mary doesn't. But he can't let her die. Her voice calls to him, and he can feel the fear in her tone. "Matthew, Matthew!"
He starts to yell for her, but she is too far away.
He starts to move, but there is a searing pain in his leg.
He starts to try to save her, but mud is clinging to him and he can't move.
A bullet comes out of a German gun. It is headed straight toward her.
Time seems to slow.
Everything becomes slower and slower, until he cannot discernibly move.
Then everything becomes black.
Perhaps he was never awake at all.
For so many years, she has imagined touching him. She's never said anything about it, not to a living soul. It is her secret fantasy, well hidden, but increasingly painful as every time she sees him, her dream seems to slip further away.
Today, she touches him.
But not in the way she would ever have expected.
She comes down to the hospital early, before Matthew arrives, even before the nurses arrive. Sybil comes, maybe an hour later, and is surprised to meet Mary there.
Then again, it seems, Sybil can hardly meet Mary's eyes.
Before Mary has a chance to talk to Sybil, however, another truck full of soldiers pulls up in front of the hospital. Matthew has arrived.
Mary can't breathe until she sees him, and she still can't breathe when she does. She takes quick inventory; four limbs are still attached to his body, there are no obvious deformities, he's breathing.
That's enough.
She finally breathes.
Another, more critical glance reveals things she never wished to see. His eyes are shadowed, although whether from exhaustion or bruises she can't say. His face is scratched, nearly beyond recognition. He is dirty, so dirty, but still pale underneath the mud. He is completely asleep.
She breathes, although there is no relief in such a breath.
The orderlies move him to a bed, beneath the windows. Pleasant as a hospital bed can be, with plenty of sunlight.
But there's no sunlight today. A steady rain drips down the windowpane.
Sybil finally meets Mary's eyes when they see him lying prone on the bed. "Will you help me clean him?" Sybil asks.
Mary steps next to her sister and nods. "Of course." She examines him again, and sees a tag hanging off of his pajama sleeve.
She picks it up and reads the cold, clinical handwriting.
Bullet in left leg. Possible concussion. Probable shellshock.
She suddenly can't breathe again. "What does this mean?" she asks Sybil. She understands the first sentence, and it makes her blood run cold. She knows the meaning of the second, but it doesn't have quite the same impact.
But the third?
She's heard of shellshock before, and of course it's nothing good, but to see such a thing written about Matthew...
"Shellshock could mean any number of things," Sybil says, in complete understanding. "Since he might have a concussion, he probably woke up, was confused and thought he was in the trenches, and so the doctor wrote that down."
Mary presses her lips together. She knows it's more than that, but she doesn't argue with Sybil. For once in her life, she wants to be wrong.
Sybil looks at Matthew and sighs. "Could you get some warm water? And towels," she asks.
"Of course," Mary says. She has never taken orders from her little sister, but this seems like an appropriate time to follow Sybil's lead.
Sybil gratefully takes the water and towels and places them on a table next to Matthew's bed. She puts a bottle of antiseptic on the table as well, and hands a towel to Mary. "Here, take your towel and dip it in the water, and just sort of... scrub away at the dirt. Gently, though. Do the same for blood, but if the wound underneath is oozing, apply some antiseptic."
Mary carefully applies the towel to his face, and the dirt begins to leave his skin. She looks up at Sybil expectantly.
"Good," Sybil says. "I have a few other patients to take care of, so if you don't mind doing this to his head and chest? Don't start on his legs yet, Clarkson might want to take a look at the wound first. If anything won't stop bleeding, there are bandages in the closet. Will you be alright?"
Mary nods, but honestly she's lying. She has never nursed before, and this is a baptism of fire. And it's Matthew. What if she hurts him? She feels her heart pound in her chest.
Nevertheless, she is determined. She pulls up a chair that scrapes against the ground and sits on it and begins to take the dirt and congealed blood off of his face.
She takes a glance to make sure Sybil isn't watching, to make sure nobody is watching. She allows herself to touch his face. She hasn't touched him here since they last kissed. It must have been right after Sybil's ball, when she touched him last. And his face is different now, much thinner, skin taut over sharp cheekbones, almost gaunt in appearance. He has two or three days of stubble dotting his face; Mary allows her hand to rest on it a moment too long. It's rough, and yet pleasantly so. Her fingers run softly over his lips. They are chapped, and Mary thinks of how painful they must be, and how wonderful to kiss them were when they were at Sybil's ball, and hiding in the garden away from the view of everyone else.
His face is clean, or mostly so, and Mary leans back to take a look at him. He's very pale, paler than she remembers, although part of that could be his injury. His eyes are still dark, and there are still scratches on his face that won't heal for weeks. His hair is still a mess; Mary notices that he must have lice. He is still so beautiful to her.
She moves to his torso, and a sharp breath escapes her when she realizes that she is taking off his shirt. This is more than she has ever done, and yet it's not in a context she would have ever wished.
Mary slowly, reverently, unbuttons each fastening on his pajama shirt. Each reveals a little more skin, and a little more damage. His chest is already riddled with small white scars, or bigger ones, or red marks that are new.
She doesn't notice that though, not right away. Instead she notices how handsome his torso is, how defined his muscles are, how flat his stomach is. It isn't what she expected, and while she appreciates his definition, she almost misses the cherub-faced solicitor she fell in love with. She hates how the war has changed him.
Her fingers don't hesitate to touch the muscles of his torso and she moves a wet cloth across it, cleaning off any dirt, any blood, anything.
She feels his chest rise and fall as he breathes. Every breath seems to be taken in a rush of panic. She feels his heart; it beats quickly. She almost wonders if it is too quickly, but she pushes back her fears. This must be normal.
This situation is not normal.
She is touching him.
She has always wanted to touch him.
She never thought it would be like this.
His senses assault him when he finally wakes up.
First, he feels. He always seems to feel, much more than he should, but here, it is not just emotions that overwhelm him. There are cool, crisp sheets surrounding him, although they are thin and have threadbare spots. He can't be bothered to care too much. What he does care about, however, is his pounding head and his throbbing leg. He has never felt such intense pain before, but in a woozy sort of way; he doesn't cry out or wince or anything. He just lies there, convinced that it will go away. It doesn't. There is a hand in his hair, gently stroking it, but he is so focused on his pain that he doesn't notice.
Second, he smells. The sting of antiseptic in the stifling air. The stench of festering wounds. The smell of roses and lavender... odd in the setting, but he doesn't think much of it.
Because third, he tastes. His mouth is so dry, he can't remember the last time he took a sip of water. All he can taste is blood and the bitter aftertaste of a sleeping draught. He tries to open his mouth and his tongue touches his lips, and he tastes more blood.
Fourth, he hears. And this sense is one he's grateful to have, because what he hears is beautiful. He hears Mary's voice, lyrical and sweet, calling his name. In the background, he can still hear the screams of soldiers and the quiet hum of the nurses but he focuses on Mary's voice because that is all he can handle.
Finally, he sees. As his other senses told him, he's in a hospital. It's not a field hospital, he's home at Downton and in the hospital there. But as he blinks and allows his eyes to adjust to the light once again, he sees Mary, and he tries to smile.
All the feeling comes crashing down on him, and he is awake, and he can feel everything. There is pain, so much pain, that he almost passes out again. But he manages to stay awake, because he can feel Mary holding his hand.
"Where am I?" he asks. Or he tries to. His voice cracks and his thirst is still unquenched. Mary shushes him and pours a glass of water, and tips it back for him to drink.
He knows where he is, but he still needs confirmation that he isn't still in France, in the hell that is the trenches. Because he can't be sure. He's not sure that he can ever be sure.
When the water has trickled down his throat, he tries again. "Where am I?" he croaks. This time, he gets the words out.
Mary smiles and takes a towel to wipe his torn lips. "At Downton. You're back home," she says.
It's odd, he thinks. Something isn't right. Maybe he is back at Downton, but why is it Mary? Mary never would nurse him, Mary would never nurse anyone. No, this is wrong and he is still dreaming. Has he ever had this much feeling, this much pain in a dream before? He doesn't recall, but he doesn't always recall his dreams either.
"No, I'm not," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not, I'm dreaming. Tell me where I am!"
Mary blinks, her eyes concealing any sort of fright. "You're not dreaming, Matthew. You're awake. You've come home from France, and you're hurt, and now you're at Downton, and we're going to help get you better."
"If this is a dream, then why are you here?" he asks.
"I'm nursing you."
He licks his bloodied lips. "Where's Lavinia? Or Mother?"
"What?"
"Well, where are they?"
Mary blinks. "Lavinia is going to get on the train here soon, and Cousin Isobel was in France, but she's trying to get here as soon as she can."
Matthew's eyes are still brilliantly blue, and they glitter dangerously. "I'm dreaming," he says, convinced. "I'm dreaming and I need to wake up and help lead my men. Let me go! Let me wake up!"
She has no idea what to say.
Sybil is attending to a patient on the other side of the room, but she hears the commotion and rushes over. "Mary..." she begins.
"He woke up, but he's convinced that he's still in France and he's just dreaming all this."
Sybil puts her hands on Matthew's shoulders. "This isn't a dream. Calm down. Go back to sleep, and when you wake up, you'll be where you're supposed to be."
"Are you..." Matthew begins.
"I'm sure this isn't a dream. But if you go back to sleep, if you let this go from your mind, then you'll wake up again in reality."
Sybil keeps her hands on his shoulders until Matthew nods and closes his eyes, although his breathing is still quick and irregular.
Mary stands up and follows Sybil out of the ward. "What was that?" she asks, her eyes wide.
"That," Sybil indicates, "is shell shock."
Clarkson is by Matthew's bedside when he wakes maybe an hour later. Sybil has told him about the earlier incident, and he presses his lips together, looking concerned, but not overly so.
"Captain Crawley? Can you hear me?" Clarkson says. He is calm, almost too calm. He didn't see what happened earlier, he doesn't believe how horrible it is.
Matthew's eyes open, and Mary allows herself to stare at them. They are still blue; nothing could take away that bright blue. But there's something stormier about them, something colder. In the muted light coming in from the window, they almost look gray. Gray like Richard's... Mary gulps.
Clarkson nods when Matthew's eyes open. "Captain Crawley, you're back at Downton," he says cooly. "I promise you, this isn't a dream."
Matthew only seems to be half listening. His eyes are darting around frantically.
"I need to examine your leg, Captain Crawley," Clarkson continues. He pulls down the covers and Mary has to hold in a gasp when she sees how bloody his thigh is. Clarkson pulls the pajama pants down. Part of Mary knows she should look away, but she can't. His thigh is wrapped in bandages and Clarkson unwraps them gently. Matthew keeps wincing, gritting his teeth together.
Mary has an idea. She crosses around to the other side of the bed and holds his hand.
He doesn't seem to think much of this; he's too distracted by the pain. But he grips her hand and with every movement, he squeezes harder.
Her hand is beginning to ache but she barely notices. Matthew needs her right now, and she will be there for him.
"You're lucky this somehow didn't get infected," Clarkson says, pulling away the bandages. "Whoever dressed this had no idea what they were doing." He shakes his head and bends down to examine the wound.
Matthew says nothing. He stares at the ceiling, his light eyes blazing.
"The bone was improperly set, it will need to be reset. And I'll need to take the bullet out," Clarkson said. "Nurse Crawley, prepare him for surgery, and I'll operate after I'm through with my rounds."
Sybil nods, and presses her lips together, and just keeps looking at Matthew sadly.
"Will he be alright?" Mary asks, the question pressing in on her far too much to go unheard.
Clarkson steals another glance at Matthew's prone form. "The leg should heal, at least mostly. There is of course, the fear of infection, but we'll do our best to prevent that.. He'll probably end up with a limp, but nothing much worse. Really, I'm more concerned about his mind."
"The shellshock?" Mary asks, although there isn't much of a question in her voice.
The doctor doesn't say anything to confirm or deny her. He only replies. "The psychologist is coming in a few days, he'll be able to give you a better idea of what the issue is and where we can go from here."
"So there is an issue," she asserts. Her heart drops as she says the words.
"Mary..." This time it is Sybil, trying to stop her, but unsure of how.
Clarkson nods slowly. "What happened with Captain Crawley earlier is common in patients with shellshock. It may be a result of his medication, but that's rarer."
"He's so strong..." Mary whispers. Matthew has closed his eyes. Maybe he knows they're talking about him, maybe he doesn't, but he doesn't seem to have the strength to car. "How can this happen to him?"
"Shellshock is a new field, Lady Mary, and unfortunately there are many questions and few answers," Clarkson says. "We'll do our best for Captain Crawley, but please understand that sometimes a victim of shellshock will not be as you remember them."
Mary presses her lips together and nods. "Thank you, doctor."
Her gaze returns to Matthew, who is utterly still.
When she returns to the house, Mary says little. There is little for her to say. Robert, Cora, and Edith pester her for news about Matthew, but she allows Sybil to answer. Sybil knows better, of course.
Sybil, however, fails to mention the word 'shellshock'.
"He was a bit confused when he woke this afternoon," she says softy. As if 'a bit' is a valid qualifier. As if his 'confusion' was perfectly normal. Mary chokes on her breath, but says nothing. Perhaps Sybil is right. After all, ignorance is bliss.
"Was it just an effect of the medicine?" Robert asks. He seems naive, so naive, and Mary envies him.
Sybil meets Mary's eyes, just for a second, but it's enough, and Mary knows. Sybil is going to lie to them, to keep up a facade. "It very well might be," she says, trying to force a smile she very clearly does not feel.
"But he'll be better?" Robert seems to believe it.
There's a sharp intake of breath from Sybil, but only Mary notices. "I think he's got a good chance. He took a bullet to the leg, unfortunately. Clarkson operated on him, and said he should recover, it just might take a long time."
For Mary today, that was the good news. When Clarkson pulled her aside, tearing her eyes away from a sleeping Matthew, and told her he was nearly sure to survive and regain at least some use of his leg.
Robert presses his lips together, and nods. For him, this is the bad news. "Well, I suppose we're lucky he wasn't hurt worse," he says. Mary and Sybil share a surreptitious glance as he continues. "We must give thanks for that."
Mary remembers his strangled cries, his frightened voice, and wonders if he really was so lucky.
She thinks of her toy dog.
Does Matthew still have it? Did he keep it? She figures he most likely threw it out or forgot about it. But part of her wonders if it's lost, lying on the battlefields in France, or with his things that have not yet arrived
If he had kept it, maybe he wouldn't be like this.
Mary sighs and begins up the stairs. She had been told Matthew probably wouldn't wake until morning due to the sedatives he had been put under for surgery. She needs to rest, as the day has been emotionally exhausting.
Sybil follows Mary up the stairs. "What happened to your hand?" she asked.
Mary hasn't noticed before now, but her hand is purple and blue and bruised. She only now realizes that it is painful. "Matthew," she says softly, looking it over. "He was in pain so... I tried to help him through it."
Sybil gives a tight-lipped smile, and Mary's heart drops. She has revealed too much, and Sybil knows. Of course, Sybil would never tell anyone, but still, Mary isn't sure how to face her sister now. "Lavinia is coming tomorrow. Edith arranged it," Sybil says. Mary can practically see Sybil's heart go out to her, and while she certainly has good intentions, Mary finds the tone hard to swallow.
"How good of Edith," Mary says, and even she is uncertain if she is being sarcastic or not.
"It was right," Sybil says, although obviously she's not sure. "Lavinia is his fiancee."
Mary blinks. "Richard was almost mine, and then he used me, horrifically, for his own financial benefit."
"I don't blame you," Sybil says. They are in Mary's room now, and Sybil doesn't ask whether she can come in, and Mary doesn't prevent her entrance. This conversation needs to continue. "For what happened with Pamuk, I mean. I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me, but..."
"Darling, you were sixteen when it happened. It wasn't something I thought that you needed to know, and I regret it, but..."
Sybil sits down on the end of Mary's bed. "It wasn't your fault."
"Of course it was," Mary says. "I let him."
Sybil sighs. "I wish you wouldn't blame yourself. And I think Richard is an awful man for taking advantage of you like this."
"So do I, but I suppose I can't complain. I deserve this."
She says the words, and it is a comfort retreating to her old mantra, even if Sybil doesn't believe it.
Thank you to all who read the last chapter and especially those who reviewed, you're all amazing. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and continue to enjoy the fic! It's going to be an angsty ride, but all I can say is trust me; I love this ship so much and I want them to be happy just as much as you do. :P And please, if you can, leave a review, they make me very happy and definitely encourage me to keep writing. Thank you! :D