I was overwhelmed and delighted by the response Chapter 7 elicited, and I don't think I've ever received so many requests to drop all other writing and focus on one story! So here is Chapter 8...I hope the wait wasn't too terribly long. :) I love writing this AU so much, and I adore your reviews, your pm's on tumblr, and the drabble prompts in this verse several of you send me.
As always, many thanks to miscreant rose and Cls2011, my friends, sisters, and feedback queens. Also, my love and thanks to my dear, dear friend KP. Here you go-as you requested, girl! I hope you enjoy it.
I do not own Downton Abbey, Charles Blake or Mary Crawley. And now, let the games continue.
"You're getting quite good at those, you know."
He watches her maneuver past the kitchen corner without falling, nodding his head at her accomplishment on the crutches that have made her curse repeatedly.
"Yes," she tosses back edgily. "I'm quite the professional now. Perhaps I'll only procure two bruises today rather than four."
"Tsk, tsk," he returns, shaking his head. "You are much too hard on yourself, you know. Have you ever considered patting yourself on the back once and a while?"
"I would," she answered, dropping slowly to the couch beside him in relief. "If I weren't afraid the attempt would knock me over."
He chuckles under his breath, earning him a look that warns him he is treading on thin ice. God, she's adorable when she glares at him like that, and he fights back the urge to grin like an idiot.
"So you're not a master at crutches," he shrugs, noting that she and Andromeda are staring at him with identical expressions. "Soon you'll be able to put those away and simply rely upon that brace."
A puff of air from her nostrils accompanies a hard look at said medical device, effectively conveying her lack of affection for it, as well.
"Oh, yes, this attractive brace," she observes sarcastically, looking at it in disgust. "It almost looks as lovely as my knee."
"Your knee has improved over the past three days," he states. "The swelling has gone down."
"But the bruising is more pronounced," she sighs, falling back into the cushions and raking fingers through uncombed hair. "I look like a gorgon."
"A very pretty gorgon," he offers, fighting back the urge to stroke her hair. "And you smell much more pleasant, I assure you."
"Been sniffing gorgons again?" she retorts. "You do like to live on the edge."
"I'm here with you, aren't I?" he shrugs, returning his focus to his laptop, feeling her eyes burning a hole in him nonetheless. "Besides, we ogres have no fear of gorgons. Only Ice Queens."
"Nice save," she half-grins, the over-sized shirt she slept in falling off one shoulder just so. Well, there goes any chance of further productivity this morning. His editor will be texting soon, and the messages will be most likely be far from flattering.
"Would you be up for an outing this weekend?"
She shrugs, staring back at her leg as she wrinkles her nose.
"That depends on what sort of outing it is," she replies.
"I'd like the particulars to be a surprise," he answers, avoiding her eyes in a teasing fashion. "But it's a work-related function this Saturday that I think you might enjoy."
"Wait," she interjects, touching his arm. "Are you asking me to be your date?"
That's exactly what he is asking, but he cannot be too obvious, so he flicks his eyebrows at her playfully.
"Well, we are supposed to be a hot and heavy item," he muses with a shrug. "Why not have as much fun with our roles as we possibly can?"
Her brows crease, and she is clearly mulling over his suggestion.
"And I won't embarrass you?" she questions, making him sigh in disbelief. "With my crutches and balloon-sized knee?"
"Are you really asking me such a stupid question?"
Her gaze intensifies.
"Are you really brave enough to call me stupid?"
"Touché," he grins, eliciting a small smirk from her. "And, no. Who in their right mind would ever be embarrassed to be seen with you?"
Her gaze drops as she clears her throat, and she leans over his shoulder as his focus returns to his laptop.
"What are you writing?" she asks, attempting to peek at his screen.
"That, my dear, is also a surprise," he returns, closing the lid and setting it on the table.
"If you're some sort of master criminal contacting his minions, I don't want to know about it," she muses, gazing at him pointedly.
"And all this time I was hoping to lure you to the dark side," he sighs, shaking his head. "Our food is better, you know."
"Says the master of eggs and bacon," she retorts with a nod.
"And tongue," he adds quickly. "Don't forget the tongue."
"So you keep saying," she tosses back. "But I have yet to be shown any evidence of this claim."
Damn it. His body responds for him before he can think, and he steadies his breathing purposely, already anticipating the cold shower he will most certainly need. He then scoots towards her, watching her eyes round and dilate, wondering what she would do if he actually kissed her like he meant it.
"I'm happy to demonstrate whenever you're ready to bite," he teases, feeling her breath quicken as he shifts to hide evidence of his mounting arousal.
She swallows audibly, clearly mulling something over as her eyes drop to her hands.
"Mary, I…"
"Go ahead."
He freezes in place, shaking his head to clear up what has to have been a sexually-frustrated hallucination.
"What did you say?" he stutters, hating the eagerness in his tone he is trying so hard to mask.
"You heard me," she returns, sounding bolder. "Bite me, Blake."
A well of feeling gurgles up from his chest, shaking his rib cage as his breath comes in ragged snatches. And then it happens.
He laughs. Damn it all to hell.
Christ, he's laughing like an idiot, and he can't stop. She stares at him like he's grown a third ear, her face an unnatural shade of white.
Of all the bloody moments to get tickled beyond salvation.
"I'm glad you find an invitation to kiss me so amusing," she half-snarls, leaning away from him with an expression he can't quite make out. "I won't ask again."
This is getting out of hand all too quickly, and he clasps her arm to assure she won't attempt to leave.
"I'm sorry, Mary," he manages, gulping air just to have it spew out of him again. "It's just..it's just the way you said it. Bite me, Blake."
God, what a lousy impression of her voice, but he sees her chin quiver and her lips press together before a full-fledged cackle breaks out of her lungs.
Tears pour from the creases of his eyes, and his stomach begins to ache. He grabs her shoulder, she leans into his chest, wiping cheeks and touching limbs in response to something never meant to be amusing.
"You sound nothing like me, you know," she insists, her voice quivering before laughter overtakes them both again. God, his sides are hurting.
"That's because you're difficult to pin down, Mary Crawley," he states, slowing his breathing just in time to see her face become vulnerable yet again. "Very difficult."
He feels her pull back, the loss of her touch leaving him cold.
"I know I'm not exactly easy," she states, all merriment now gone as she brushes the remnants of laughter from her skin.
Hell. This is not how he wants her to feel.
"Nothing worthwhile is, you know," he breathes, sitting up taller to face her directly, his breathing still heavy.
"And you think I'm worthwhile?"
His heart skips a beat, his chest tightening instantly, and he feels completely exposed before her as he wills himself to maintain eye contact.
"I know you are," he whispers, daring to take her hand. "You just need to start believing it."
Her eyes look nearly black, pools of endless depth he could gaze into for hours.
"And what about you, Charles? Do you believe you're worth it, too?"
He inhales loudly, puffing his cheeks as he summons the courage to give her an honest answer.
"I don't know anymore, Mary. I wish I could tell you."
She squeezes his hand, exhaling into the space between them.
"I think you are, for what it's worth," she confesses, her eyes fluttering in a way that makes him shiver. "I don't know what I would have done the past few days if you hadn't volunteered to stay."
He gently traces her knuckles with his the pad of his thumb, willing to sell his soul for the ability to read her mind.
"If I remember correctly, I insisted on staying," he muses. "You were ready to toss me out the window."
"I was bluffing," she returns with a grin, the smattering of pink crawling up her neck making her all the more precious to him. "But only about the window. Not about kicking you down the stairs."
They chuckle softly together, and his breath catches at the tender intimacy of it.
"So you settled on pushing me out of bed?" he continues, feeling rather like a schoolboy rather than a grown man.
She bites her lower lip, clearly weighing her words carefully.
"I shouldn't have done that."
Silence descends, the fact that their hands are still connected making his heart pound uncomfortably.
"I've recovered you know," he shrugs. "As best as one can after so grievous a wound."
She nudges him hard, hissing as she jostles her own knee in the process.
"See what happens when you try to do me physical harm?"
She shoots him another one of those looks.
"What fairly of ill luck did you bribe to follow me around, Lord Ogre?"
"I went straight to Maleficent herself," he muses. "Only the best for you, my dear."
Her nose twitches in a manner new to him, and he memorizes it, filing it away for when he cannot sleep and needs to keep her close.
"Usually I'd be flattered," she quips. "But next time, second best will do."
Her attempt to hide her discomfort fails miserably.
"Would you like to prop your knee while I fix some breakfast?" he asks.
She nods quietly, and he stacks her two favorite pillows just the way she likes them, hoisting her outstretched leg gently atop them as slowly as he can.
"I'd like to try to go into the office today."
He looks back at her in surprise, staring at her knee in concern.
"Do you think you can manage?" he asks, leaning forward on his elbows. "For all your progress, you're still not that adept when it comes to those things."
She stares at the crutches with a grimace.
"I know," she admits. "I thought perhaps you could drive and help me get situated and then pick me up early."
His heart pulls and tugs in her direction, and he knows he would take her anywhere she asked.
"So now I'm your chauffer?" he goads with a grin, doing his best to shrug it off, failing miserably.
"I believe man-slave was the term we settled upon," she corrects with a slant of her eyes.
"I prefer house elf," he corrects. "At least that way, I stand a chance of someone taking pity on me and offering me a sock."
"If you start begging for socks, I'll break your wand," she hums, eliciting yet another chuckle as he stands.
"Remember, the wand chooses the wizard, Mary. Mine is loyal to a fault."
"I think it's also charged," she notes, a sly grin erupting across her face as he feels his cheeks overheat.
"The better to zap you with, my dear," he fires back, suddenly hot all over at the wicked grin she is sporting.
"Now who is reading naughty fairy tales?" she breathes, as he moves back to sit beside her. He can't stay away from her for ten seconds.
"What can I say?" he manages. "You're a bad influence. I'm sure your mother would be quite proud."
"My mother," she whispers to herself as her eyes round exorbitantly. "God, we're having dinner with her tomorrow evening."
"I know," he replies. "We'd best get our story together on what we're going to say."
Her face falls into her hands, and she shakes her head back and forth.
"Why, why, why did we do this to ourselves?" she questions before raising back up to look at him.
"Because you couldn't keep your hands off of my phone," he answers smoothly, earning himself a backhanded smack on the chest. "I'm sorry," he adds. "Did you want me to drive you to work or drop-kick you?"
"Don't threaten me," she returns. "I'll text Lucy."
"You play dirty," he declares, checking his pocket for his phone to make certain it is out of her reach.
"I play to win," she grins, and he wants to kiss the hell out of her.
"Yes, I'll drive you, your highness," he bows. "Because I'm such an honorable ogre, you understand. And it just so happens that I need to fetch some clean clothes from my flat, anyway."
"And I thought it was simply eau de ogre I was smelling," she muses, wiggling her brows mischievously.
"You should be so lucky," he returns, forcing his gaze away from the fullness of her lips. "Eau de ogre is a potent aphrodisiac, so I'm told."
Their eyes fasten upon each other, unable to let go, holding on for dear life.
"Do you think we can pull this off?" she asks with some hesitation.
"Our clothes?" he asks. "Absolutely. Your brace…that would be unwise."
Her eyes narrow dangerously.
"How about your wand?" she voices steadily. "Pulling that off could prove to be rather amusing."
"Don't even try it," he warns, watching her roll her eyes. "Well, on second thought…"
"I mean our families, for God's sake," she cuts in with a sigh. "My mother is very observant. If we're going to make her believe we're a couple, we going to have to be convincing."
"We certainly convinced Sybil without any difficulty," he reminds her.
"Because you answered the door in a towel," she huffs. "If you show up for dinner in your boxers, I don't think my mother will take you very seriously."
"She'll seriously take me for an idiot," he corrects. "Although I must say that meeting your mother has me terribly intrigued. Ask her to bring along her collection of annotated fairy tales, if you don't mind."
"I'll see what I can do," Mary states. "And I think she'll like you. She appreciates clever men."
"So now I'm clever," he returns. "I have moved up in the world. Perhaps receiving a sock isn't such a pipe dream after all."
"I'm happy to sock it to you," she tosses back.
"Don't I know it," he hums, ducking just in time.
"But she will ask questions," Mary states, picking up where they left off. "And we need to know what to say."
"Well, we met in a bar," he shrugs. "It's the truth, and you did tell Sybil that, didn't you?"
"Yes," she answers. "But where do we go from there?"
"Simple," he muses. "You couldn't keep your hands off of me and insisted I take you back to my flat immediately, where you literally fell into my bed without a second thought."
"If you text that to Lucy, I'm sending her the photo of your ass," she warns.
"As your mother has already seen it, I'm not certain things could get any worse," he observes flatly. "God, how am I supposed to make eye contact with her all evening?"
"You'll manage," she fires back. "Now as to our story…"
"I think our story stays as it is," he interrupts. "We met at a bar. A hooligan was coming on to you. I stepped in, we acted like a couple, and then we began talking. When you hurt your knee, I came over to help you, and things progressed from there. The simpler we keep it, the less likely we are to mess up."
She nods thoughtfully, clearly mulling over his suggestion.
"What's your favorite color?"
His question catches her off-guard before she realizes what he is doing.
"I have two, and I'm afraid they're rather boring," she sighs. "Black and white."
He grins appreciatively.
"That suits you, actually," he observes. "Any guesses as to mine?"
"You're being unfair," she throws back. "You didn't have to guess mine."
"I'll guess something else," he returns. "Now what's your answer?"
"Brown," she states, narrowing her gaze. "Or green. Something natural and down-to-earth."
He smiles back at her appreciatively.
"Very impressive," he states, his brows creasing in surprise.
"They're the primary colors of your flat," she shrugs. "You know I pay attention to those things."
"You are an interior designer," he observes. "I shouldn't be surprised. And it is green. Any shade of it, actually. Now, what do I have to guess about you?"
"My favorite flower," she replies. "Any boyfriend worth his salt would know that one."
"Hmmm…" he ponders. "You're a horribly complex woman, yet your tastes tend to be straightforward. I suspect you love lilies, have a soft spot for wildflowers, but deep down, although you're loathe to admit it, you have a passionate and abiding love for roses."
She stares at him, nearly slack-jawed as his flashes her a satisfied grin.
"I'm good, Mary," he dares, swallowing hard as she licks her lips slowly. "You must admit, I am good."
"What color?" she fires back. "Let's see how you manage this quest ion before you proclaim your accolades too loudly."
He scrolls his memory, searching pointlessly for any clues.
"White?" he guesses.
"Yellow," she corrects, and he hangs his head in mock defeat as she laughs.
"I honestly almost said red," he admits, opening his hands. "It is classic, passionate, and goes so well with black and white."
She gives him a nod of acknowledgement.
"I don't know why, but yellow roses have always been my favorite," she states.
"They're cheerful," he observes. "Yellow always represents hope to me, that no matter how gray things may get, the sun will shine again eventually."
"You're rather quick with words, you know," she muses with a flick of her brow.
"I read thesauri in my spare time," he shrugs nonchalantly.
"You do realize that to the Victorians, a yellow rose symbolized jealousy?'
She watches him closely, and he leans into her space.
"And today?" he questions. "What does it represent today?"
The scent of rose petal lotion washes over him like a high tide, dragging him into her undertow with no life raft in sight.
"Friendship," she whispers, her eyes moving continually. "Joy and affection."
"Then I should send you some yellow roses," he breathes, stroking a lock of her hair as his skin begins to prickle. "They would seem to fit our relationship, and I must do better in the area of showering you with gifts if I'm to play the part of the devoted boyfriend."
Or lover. Or man-slave. Or practically anything she asks him to be.
"I have no objections," she returns, blinking quickly. "To being showered with gifts, that is."
His heart is pounding, and he is overwhelmed by her, aching to hold her, to kiss her, to lose himself in her mysteries and never seek to be found.
"Do you know what I think?"
Her eyes have rounded completely, her lips almost forming an "O" as his fingers dance lightly in her hair.
"What?" she asks, the timbre of her voice nearly an octave lower, and he wonders if she is enjoying his touch or is scared out of her mind.
"That what we need to practice is physical contact."
His statement renders her speechless, it seems, and he takes advantage and nudges her cheek with his nose, feeling her gasp underneath his touch. Hell, he may regret this later, and she may well kick him the groin, but he can't bring himself to move away now, not when her skin is beckoning his mouth with an insistence he doesn't want to ignore.
"Why do you say that?"
He can barely here her, and she hasn't moved, frozen beneath his touch even as he begins to overheat.
"Because if we're lovers, we should be comfortable touching each other," he manages, trying his best not to squeak. "And holding hands with each other. And kissing quite frequently."
He scoops up her hand, interlocking their fingers as he slowly rubs her knuckles across his lower lip before encircling one with his mouth. God, she tastes like ambrosia, and he's nearly drunk at the nearness of her. She jumps slightly, and he draws back, unable to lure her eyes back to him as her chest flutters with the speed of a butterfly's wings.
"You can't do that in front of your mother, you know," he hums through his parched larynx. "After all, she thinks I've kissed you in far more intimate places."
She shivers, her face flushing in an instant, yet she nods without a word.
"I know," she agrees shakily. "It's just that…that was…new."
New and perfect, and more than a little dangerous, he realizes.
"Now relax, Mary," he instructs, feeling anything but relaxed himself. "Pretend we're a couple. Pretend we've kissed hundreds of times, that we move from one kiss directly into another without being able to stop ourselves. Pretend we've undressed each other in the moonlight and have held nothing back, that you've seen and touched every part of me, that I've kissed and explored every part of you. Pretend we've been intimate to the point of laughter and relaxation. Pretend we're in love."
The words flow from him without control, just as they have from his fingers to his laptop when his mind fixes around her as it does all too often these days.
"We're in love," she whispers to herself, nearly sending him over the edge as he shudders all over, leaning into her slowly, swallowing hard.
"Yes," he breathes on to her lips. "We're in love."
He nearly chokes on his own admission, drowning in all that she is and how much of him she has unknowingly claimed. God, this woman and what she does to him, how she reaches places he had believed inaccessible, how she makes him burn without even wanting him in return.
Then he touches her lips with his own, rubbing softly, grazing and sampling just so, and hers flutter just beneath his, making him start as a strong jolt runs up his legs.
"You can't do that in front of my mother," she mutters, making him laugh raggedly as he cups her face.
"I won't," he assures her, his voice huskier than it had been just seconds ago. "But perhaps we should practice again. Just to get used to it."
"You're right," she nods haltingly, trembling beneath his touch. "Just to get used to it."
Neither of them move.
Then foreheads come together, breaths intermingle, and for a moment it is real—she does love him—she is his—and he claims her mouth as if he has the right, nipping, soothing, nudging his way inside the wonders of her essence. She opens for him and his tongue slides in, the heat of her mouth driving him forward with an insistent rhythm that takes over.
His arms hold her closer, her hands reach up to his face, and he melts at the sensation of her thumbs tracing his cheekbones, coming close to his ear, weaving ever closer to his heart. He cups the back of her head, angling slightly, giving himself better access as her tongue teases and taunts him until he is nearly mad.
He pushes deeper, she opens further, and they are buried in each other. God, he feels like he is home here, with her in his arms, her taste on his tongue, her breath in his mouth, the treasure of all she is so close yet so far. Sweat beads across his forehead as slender fingers clasp his shoulder, and he wants her in a way that almost frightens him.
"Mary," he whispers, her name dripping from his tongue before he can stop it. How far his marriage seems from him now, a black chapter in his life that brought him such misery after the glow of blind adoration faded into a stark and cold reality. His past is dark, yet she is alive and warm, this self-proclaimed ice queen who is kissing him back with a heated ferocity that muddles his brain.
But the she trembles and pulls back, and he draws her lower lip through his teeth, her shiver reverberating all the way to his groin. Her stare is hypnotic, the mussed nature of her hair, the swollen redness of her lips enough to make him want to declare his feelings for her on the spot. But that would frighten her away, he is certain, for there are parts of her that still cling to an old lover who left her marked and branded in ways she doesn't yet fully understand.
"I think that was rather convincing," she gasps, her fingers still splayed across his face, her eyes heavy and hooded.
"So do I," he voices, clearing his throat awkwardly. "You're rather good at this, you know."
She bites her lower lip, and the almost bashful smile she gives him nearly constricting his lungs.
"So are you," she whispers. "Especially the way you use your teeth."
God, he's about to explode all over the sofa, and he inhales audibly in a futile attempt to reel in regions ready to boil over.
"I could do it again, if you like," he offers, trying to keep his voice somewhat steady. "Do you have any particular spot in mind?'
Her gaze leaves him in a fog until she tilts her neck slightly, pointing to the spot just below her ear.
"Here," her throaty reply instructs him, making his soul and body throb for her.
Christ. What has he instigated?
"Your wish is my command," he murmurs, leaning in as she tilts her head back, exposing her neck, his thumb shaking as it moves slowly down the marble slope. She hisses, he echoes just before his lips dot her pulse, and he takes her lobe into her mouth, hearing her moan as her fingers press into his scalp.
He is not going to survive this charade.
He feels her breasts rise into his chest, senses her nipples pebbling beneath fine cotton, and he knows she is at least affected by him. His teeth then graze her sensitive spot, and she jumps, crying out as she gently pushes him away.
"My knee," she breathes, and he is mortified to realize the movement has caused her pain.
"I'm sorry," he gushes, helping her right her position, feeling her slip back from him into a realm of uncertainty. "So very sorry, Mary. I didn't mean…"
"It's alright," she assures him, her eyes full of something he cannot interpret. "We'll just have to be bit more careful when we…when we practice."
He takes her hand again, staring at it, wondering what her engagement ring had looked like, remembering how it had felt to take off his wedding band just weeks ago out of defeat.
"Of course," he agrees with a smile. "And perhaps it would be wise for me to keep my teeth to myself until your knee has further healed."
Her gaze narrows slightly, and he feels rather than hears her sigh.
"Perhaps," she responds without looking at him, and he prays she is at least slightly disappointed. "I hate this bloody brace, you know, and all that goes with it."
He hates that he is the one who put her in that brace in the first place.
"I know," he says gently. "But it won't last forever. Soon you'll be up and moving around on your own without difficulty, and you won't need me anymore."
Her stare makes him uncomfortable, and for a moment he thinks he sees a flash of pain in her eyes.
"I don't know," she responds. "It's rather addicting having a man-slave around. Who will cook for me when you leave?"
When he leaves. Dammit. He cannot stomach the thought of leaving her, and he's known her only a matter of weeks.
"Shall I just move in, then?" he questions with a grin he prays doesn't look forced. "Cook your meals, do your laundry, and shower with you whenever possible?"
Her lips draw upwards playfully before breaking into an actual smile.
"If you toss in massaging my feet, you have a deal."
Her toes wiggle, and he grins like an idiot, suddenly wondering how they would look painted red, how they would feel skimming across his calf, how she would react if he slipped one of them into his mouth.
"Well, if our families weren't talking already, they most certainly would be then," he muses, tweaking her toe delicately instead.
"Sybil might have a coronary," Mary returned. "And my mother would start picking out baby names."
"My mother probably already has," he states. "God, my head hurts just thinking about it."
But it's not just his head that is spinning. It's his life. He can see himself settling down with Mary, having a baby with Mary, can envision her sitting on this very couch with their child in her arms.
Damn.
He knows then that there is no hope of backing off anymore, that he is committed, that he is hers in every way that matters.
Now he simply must convince her of that fact.
