A/N: Hello!

I'm really kind of overwhelmed by the variety of responses to the previous chapter. I knew it would be unpleasant, and hard, and I'm so incredibly thankful to everyone who's sticking with me! Ultimately this story is an AU - to me that means, changing one thing (in this case M/M's 1x02 relationship) and taking it from there. The characters and how I believe they would respond is leading me, rather than how I'd like them to respond - which would lead us to a very different story :P So, thank you so, so much.

Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me this week, as my energy just sapped for some reason and so this has taken me longer than expected. Thank you, and as ever to EOlivet who's also made me a GORGEOUS banner for it :) :)

Enjoy...!

Chapter Seven

Matthew awoke on Sunday morning with a pounding headache. It had not dissipated from the evening before.

For a moment, he lay and wondered whether he'd dreamed it all. But as the dream refused to fade and the pain lingered freshly as an ache in his chest, he accepted that it was memory. Mary's coldness towards him… Their argument… How poorly he'd tried to smooth it over, how little she had let him try.

He then spent almost half an hour, his eyes screwed tight shut against the world, wishing fretfully that somehow it was possible to turn back the clock. They had been friends, they had been happy, and then he'd been stupid and ruined it all… If he only thought, tried, wished hard enough… but that was a dream, as well. Where they were to go from here, he didn't know.

As Molesley helped him dress (Matthew realised with a start that just lately it had stopped seeming so odd. He was used to it, this routine, now) he was quiet and pensive. Over breakfast, he was little better; chewing his toast and sipping his tea with little comment on anything. He couldn't decide how he felt. A treacherous part of him still longed for Mary; to go and see her and try, try again to say he was sorry… but he didn't want to be made a fool out of when she rejected him.

"How do you feel this morning, dear?" Isobel asked when she could bear his moody silence no longer. His hasty departure the evening before had left her wondering, rather.

He glanced up and shrugged. "Alright I suppose. Better after a decent sleep." It was a lie, but his mother didn't need to know that.

"I'm glad. At least you've another day to shake it off," she smiled encouragingly.

"There's that." He frowned distractedly, taking the small envelope from a silver tray that Molesley suddenly presented beside him. They never had post on a Sunday, and certainly not before church… Sliding his thumb under the seal, he tried to divert attention from his own worries. "What about you," he asked, unfolding the small handwritten note and scanning it quickly. "Are you planning on seeing – my God!"

"Heavens, what on earth is it?" Isobel looked up sharply at Matthew's loud exclamation, to see him white as a sheet and staring wide-eyed at the note. "Matthew?"

"He's – dead," Matthew choked out, his voice barely audible. "The – the Turkish – diplomat. He's… dead. During the night, I don't know, I – God."

"Oh how awful!"

Matthew continued to stare blankly down at the hastily scrawled words before him. Dead. For all he'd… hated the way the man had looked at Mary, hated him, the way Mary had looked and flirted and laughed with him he'd… never wished him dead! And now cold tendrils of guilt curled into his belly. How badly he'd thought of him, how resentful he'd been and how low his opinion had been of him and now… this. He swallowed and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I wonder how it happened. Perhaps the family will be at church, but – well, I wouldn't blame them if they don't feel up to it. What a – horrible thing to happen." He shivered.

As it happened, most of the family weren't at church. Matthew cast his eyes around the little building, and saw only the Earl in his usual place. He shifted restlessly throughout the sermon, unable to concentrate in the slightest, to the point of his fretful fidgeting earning him more than one reproachful glare from his mother.

The moment the service was over, Matthew muttered his excuses and eased out through the press of church-goers, finding Robert standing just outside the gateway where he dutifully nodded his greetings to those who walked by.

"Cousin Robert, good morning – I got your note," he said, moving to stand beside the Earl whose expression was weary and drawn.

"Oh – good. It's all been rather a shock."

"I can only imagine." Matthew shook his head a little. It still seemed so hard to take in, after the man had appeared so vibrant and vivacious and, well, alive only hours before. "I don't suppose there's any idea yet –"

"No. But it all seems – well, innocent, I'm glad to say. Thomas, poor chap, discovered him taking the tea up this morning."

"God, how rotten. If I'm honest I wasn't sure whether to expect you here this morning – I'm sure you could've excused yourself, under the circumstances." Though of course, Matthew remembered, no-one else knew yet – but the family must be in shock, for it to have happened under their own roof, so suddenly…

Robert smiled weakly. "Well as you see, I'm here alone. Cora and the girls didn't feel up to it, and I don't blame them."

Matthew frowned gently, and waited a moment before he replied, wondering over the sense of his next words but they slipped out before he could stop them, his memory of bitterness rising once more.

"No, I'm sure. I thought – Mary seemed rather struck by him."

As Matthew's lips pursed in annoyance (and only a little stab of guilt at still thinking badly of the man), his older cousin imperceptibly winced. Quietly, he watched Matthew, thinking carefully about his response.

"Did you?" Of course he'd seen, they'd all seen. But now, as Matthew glanced up with bitterness etched across his expression, Robert couldn't help the barest hint of a knowing smile. "I know she flirted with him rather a lot. And I know, too, that she spent a good deal of the evening looking for your reaction."

Matthew looked up sharply, and disbelievingly, a deep frown creasing his brow. "I don't think so –"

"Matthew…" Robert sighed, lifting a hand to the younger man's shoulder. "I thought – forgive me, but we all thought that you and Mary were getting on rather better, lately." He spoke slowly, and carefully, mindful of keeping his distance. The last thing he wanted to do was to upset things between his heir and his eldest daughter further, but… they had all begun to hope, truthfully, and he didn't want this friction between them to tear into a rift if it could be repaired now.

"We were," Matthew eventually shrugged, and took a breath before continuing sadly, his shoulders dropping in miserable resignation. "And then we… had an argument, and I was very – stupid."

Robert nodded slowly. "I see. Look – why don't you come up, later on. If Mary's about – I'm sure it would brighten her mood to see you."

"I don't know about that."

"Well. I don't know what you argued about, or what the state of things between you was before, but – we're all a bit shaken up just now. Think about it, Matthew, won't you."

He did think about it. He thought about it long and hard, and was glad to learn of his mother's plan to spend the day with a neighbour she'd promised to look in on as it gave him the solitude to do so. Warmed by the fire in the sitting room, he removed his jacket and loosened his tie and collar, and settled comfortably onto the settee with a brandy and a heavy sigh. Unusually, he took his luncheon in there as well, and when he looked so despondent and fretful Mrs. Bird could not find it within herself to make any suggestion against it.

It still ached, the way she had treated him. And while he had supposed already that her exaggerated flirtations were for his benefit, he had never thought... He swallowed heavily. Had she provoked him so that he would fight for her? To Mary's eye, he had slighted her to spend the day with Edith (God, he really was an idiot). He had let her go, or he had pushed her away – and so she had taken herself away. Had he made any move to show her she was wrong to do so? If he had, it had not been enough. Gentle smiles and too-late offers of friendship did not, could not, repair the damage he had done – and he had known that.

And now the man she had turned to instead had died. What an awful thing, and how cut up she must be. To experience such a thing in one's own home, so unexpectedly… Well, it would be horrible for anyone but Mary had been hurting already and… God, the man had died. He'd been so healthy and now… Matthew shuddered. Everything was so fragile and delicate, nothing was sure, nothing was steadfast.

He sat up straighter on the settee, then leaned forwards with his elbows on his knees and frowned into the guttering flames of the fireplace. When he thought of Mary, even now, he felt an ache deep within his being, whether it was anger or passion or pain. It was sharp and exhilarating and terrifying and exciting and… he brought to mind his surety, his conviction of only two days previously, that he loved her. He'd been on the very point of proposal, he'd been ready to give his life to her, he had given… so much of himself to her already. Was he really prepared to throw that aside, to let slide the chance to try, simply because he'd been an ass and Mary had reacted in hurt? Could he blame her, and would he let her suffer from it now when she all she needed was comfort?

No.

Resolutely, he stood up, paced back and forth across the room once and tugged his jacket back on. With a cursory shout to Molesley to let him know he was going out, he left the house and strode through the chill of the darkening winter afternoon towards the Abbey. And as he went, the more his determination grew that he would do whatever he needed to – no, whatever Mary needed him to – to make things right with her now.

As he approached the big house, and crossed the gravelled driveway before the heavy door, he saw it swing open and a figure step out, hunched against the cold. It took him only a moment to realise it was Mary, in the same instant that she looked up and saw that it was him.

Matthew.

All morning – all day – Mary had felt numb. Too numb to think, or feel, or process what had happened. She had shied away from it, from any consequences and ramifications and the fact that Kemal Pamuk had been in her bed and her arms and had died… It was too much. She could not think about what she'd done, for it was too painful to do so, and though she had had bath after bath that morning (Anna had wordlessly understood) she had not been able to scrub away the feeling of him on her very skin, crawling and pervading and inescapable. He was dead, and she felt he would haunt her in some way or other forever, and so she had shut her mind to it and everyone.

She had not allowed herself to think about Matthew, because to do so would have forced her to acknowledge the truth of her feelings for him that had pricked at the edges of her conscience (because it was not right, not right without him…). How could she not think of him, when he was all she had known… And now she had known another and – it had been so different, and now she saw Matthew before her and how his expression softened so tenderly as he saw her and he was so familiar and welcome.

"Mary! It's freezing and getting dark, you shouldn't be going out now –" he admonished her softly as he drew up to her.

She blinked, her lips parted. Why wasn't he angry? Had he forgotten the evening before, how cruelly she'd treated him, how awful she'd been?

"I – needed some air, I couldn't bear it inside anymore," she weakly explained. They stood before each other on the doorstep, unsure and tentative, all their anger driven away and exhausted by the harsh reality of life.

"I'm sure it's been awful," Matthew shook his head. She looked so shaken and he felt every last shred of bitterness drain away. How could he be angry with her, like this? What did anything else matter, when life balanced on a knife-edge – where was the time to be angry? His hand came out a little towards her, just a little, as if he were afraid to startle her. "Mary, I'm – so sorry."

"Oh God, don't be!" she cried suddenly and stepped towards him, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest as she felt some need to physically realise his presence. His chest, so warm, and… she could feel his heart beating even through his coat, alive… "Why should you be sorry?" She stared at him as though it were a genuine question, as if she didn't understand, her eyes wide and questioning and pleading.

Matthew frowned gently as his hands clasped her arms lightly in the most delicate of embraces. "Because I – I've been so stupid, I was wrong – darling you had every right to be angry and now this and – I'm so sorry. I'm here now, if there's anything I can do… Please do ask, Mary, and whatever I can do to make things better I will do it…"

As his speech went on they'd somehow drawn closer and closer together and his last words were whispered against the soft tendrils of hair that escaped from under her hastily pinned on hat. She buried her face in his neck, hands still clasping at his chest as they instinctively came together and… a sharp, pervading, swelling warmth burst through the walls of Mary's numb defence and a distraught sob shuddered from her throat.

He was whispering to her and he was sorry and he wanted to make things better and he was there for her and… it overwhelmed Mary. His arms came around her more fully and she wept, and realised that… Matthew was it. He was sorry where Pamuk had never apologised to her once, despite the things he had done and now he never could… Matthew's only thought was of her, in spite of whatever he was feeling and Pamuk's only thought had been for himself, never for her… Matthew wanted to help her, to be there for her, where Pamuk had only wanted to take her. Matthew was alive and real and here and her heart burst with thankfulness and affection.

Trembling from the cold and the force of the emotion unlocking itself within her breast, she pulled her face up and looked at him, and realised that he was everything to her. When he looked at her with those eyes, that softness, when he took her in his arms… Mary realised with a chilling thrill that it – he – was all she wanted. Her life played out ahead of her – had she really believed that she could share everything she had with Matthew, and then one day marry another? How could she possibly, how could she relinquish him?

Heavens, she had been stupid. So terribly, terribly stupid and she knew now without a doubt that there was no other man she could ever want to make love to but Matthew. And then her own thought caught up with her and she stiffened in his arms, her eyes wide and shocked with realisation. Oh, she had convinced herself that the pleasure she took from Matthew was for her body alone, the way he touched her and kissed her and fulfilled her but… it was more than that. It was him. If it was sensation alone, could she not have pretended so to herself last night? Would she not have felt on some level the same bliss, rather than the distaste which seemed to linger in every pore of her skin? But with Matthew she… she…

"Will you come with me?" she whispered somewhere against his cheek, which was cold from the wind. Her breath warmed it, and his arms warmed her. It was suddenly startlingly clear in her mind, what the only thing was that could rid her of last night's displeasure. The only thing that could heal her, cleanse her, make her right again and make her feel whole was… Matthew, because she – she wanted him and she – loved him.

"Alright," he nodded, understanding some instinctual need in her eyes that he could not argue with.

She smiled tremulously and took his hand, bringing him back inside the house. He followed. And when she whispered to him quickly to wait in the grandness of the hall, he waited, alone, while she hurried upstairs and flitted in and out of his view between the arched columns lining the gallery. And when she leaned over and beckoned to him, he went after her, his pulse racing as he wondered what she was doing. But he did not question it. He was going to make this right, for her, for them both.

Mary glanced cautiously around as Matthew appeared at the end of the corridor and walked quickly towards her. She knew the servants were busy readying things for the evening and so were out of the way, and Anna would hardly be surprised if she came to find Mary's door locked to give her some solitude and quiet. It had been a trying day for everyone, and so her absence for an hour or so would be perfectly excusable. She ushered him through the door and went in behind him, turning the key and leaving it in the lock to be sure.

Matthew looked around him curiously. "Mary, where –"

"My bedroom," she whispered, twisting her hands anxiously together. Her voice was shaky and tearful and Matthew turned back to her, his lips were graced by a trembling smile.

"Oh." It was her bedroom. His heart thudded loudly in his chest and every limb seemed to tingle. He blinked nervously. "I thought – I thought you might be showing me where he'd – no, that would be -"

"Hush!" She silenced him effectively with a hesitant kiss, brushing her lips to his, gasping as familiar pleasure lanced through her body instantly. Then it wavered as she remembered and – she thought of – no, now there was only Matthew in her arms and he was pure (God, so pure and she was – she couldn't finish the thought and blocked it out) and familiar and warm…

She heard his heavy coat fall to the floor, and before his arms could come around her again she pushed off his jacket too.

"Mary…" he whispered against her ear, his lips and his breath tickling her and making her shudder. She tightened her arms around him. "Is this really –"

"Yes," she replied fiercely without hesitation. She didn't care, whether it was wise or possible or whatever else, she needed him and this to heal everything. "Please, Matthew…"

Her plea, and this, was everything he needed. An apology, an assurance, a promise… and as he realised more fully their situation – her bedroom, the door was locked, they were fully alone – a deep sigh of desire shuddered from his body. And then his… lips, and his hands, were warm on her skin as they sealed their assent with a deep, knowing kiss, more erotic and more languid and intense than any they had yet shared.

She tugged him to the foot of her bed where they stood together, wired with anticipation and awareness. He allowed her to undress him, allowed her to lead them, allowed her to take them at her own pace as he understood that it was for her. And she knew it, and with shaking hands bared his torso to her view. She traced lightly over his chest in wonder. His skin was pale, paler than – Pamuk's, and covered with a scattering of blonde hair that she curled her fingers in, and which trailed down his belly and… lower. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, and she could see his skin tremble, so beautifully… and she pressed a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses below his throat as her hands skimmed down to his belt. He moaned quietly, and her lips dragged to his bare shoulders, which flexed as his hands moved to grip her waist, steadying himself. As she finally succeeded in her task and pushed down his trousers over his hips, watching as he kicked them free, her forehead resting against his chest, she choked back a dry sob of pleasure at the sight of him. She reached between them to touch him, heard his breath catch in his throat, and looked up to see his eyes which were dark and glittering with adoration. It was Matthew… She drank in his vision, reminding herself, reassuring herself that this time it was him in her bedroom and he was not a dream; he was here and alive and hers.

He waited, breathless, as she stepped back and shimmied as quickly as she could from her own clothes, every last scrap of them, because she wanted to for him. She saw his expression slacken as he saw her, helpless in the face of her beauty. She saw his throat flex as he swallowed, and his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and the motion only aroused her further, not like… not like… him. And when he finally touched her (her body ached and flamed at the slightest touch from his fingers, it did not recoil, not for him) it was with such a reverence and tenderness that she felt her heart might burst.

This was right, it was so right, and as she yielded herself into his arms as he lowered her gently to the softness of her bed, she could not look away from the arrestment of his precious gaze. And then they kissed, somehow slowly but with an undeniable urgency, and she writhed up against him as she welcomed his tongue in her mouth and everything was right. She placed her hand over his own and guided it to her breast, where at last he could feel her properly, and he lavished her with such affection and attention that she felt she might break apart under his hands even now. His lips followed, and his tongue touched her breast, then his whole mouth as he gave in to his every desire with a throaty moan of passion, and she clutched at his shoulders. If she looked down she could see them, his shoulders… bare and strong and flexing as he moved, his lips searching her body, his golden hair tousled as she sank her fingers into it. His lips, tongue, hands, shifting down her body, and her skin tingled in both unpleasant memory and anticipation and then glorious fulfilment as everything became Matthew. And when his tongue touched her – there – she bit her lip to stifle her moan as her hips jerked up towards him, rather than recoiling away.

And he did not stop. The sensation… She tried to ease up a little to look down, to see his golden hair moving between her thighs, to know… it was him, and only him, only Matthew, and unrestrained pleasure such as she had never felt coursed through her body. Collapsing back against the pillows as her hips writhed to push herself against his mouth, she grasped in delight at the sheets and he just… carried on. She did not expect him to, but he did, and then his… fingers, and she felt his groan and his breath and – still, more, claiming her in a storm of fire, and quicker, his mouth and his hand searching her and worshipping her until she succumbed and thrashed helplessly in searing release.

The next thing she knew when she at last opened her eyes was his darling face above her, his eyes blue and his pale skin flushed with colour, and his beautiful voice whispering to her, "God, Mary…"

Her heart ached with adoration and blissful satisfaction, but still her body craved a deeper cleansing from the memory which stained her still. Gently, she pushed his shoulders until he lay on his back, and she knelt above him. She leant down and kissed him, felt his solid chest brush against her breasts and his back arch up as her fingers grasped him. This was new, and she wanted to, she wanted him. This time she was in control, he was under her spell, and yet they were both utterly complicit in her dominance. She eased down, curling her back to reach him with her lips, tasting, licking along the length of him as he shuddered and gasped. Oh, he was perfect, and she was thankful beyond words that this, at last, was entirely between them and them alone.

Before long he could take no more and tugged at her shoulders, pleading with her to stop and let him – let them – and she answered him by straddling his hips and sinking slowly down, their loud gasps mingling in the still air, warmed by their bodies and their breath. There was no pain, it was Matthew (she opened her eyes to see him and remember, remember, it was Matthew filling her and pulling her hips against him), and they fit.

She rocked over him, against him, and he against her, in perfect unison. Though it was hard to do so, she kept her eyes open, watching his face which creased in pleasure, his eyes shut and lips parted as their hips flung together again and again. Faster… More desperate, more needy, more raw… His hands gripping tighter, leaving marks imprinted on her skin and she loved him… And then she remembered again, and faltered.

Matthew's eyes flew open but she pressed a finger to his lips, and kissed him before manoeuvring together until he lay above her, still deeply within her and her legs now around his waist. This was how it had been, how it must be now, as he made everything right. And she smiled, and leaned up to kiss him, and they began to move again. He drove against her and she welcomed him, urged him on, thrust her own hips up to meet him. Again, she forced her eyes open, and it was Matthew… Her own, her love, the only one. The only one. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled his head down to kiss him, and his own arms curled under her shoulders and they clung together, flung together with louder gasps and quicker breaths and harder thrusts that merged into one long agony of bliss that tipped Mary over the edge, her skin burning and body clenching in ecstasy which sent Matthew hurtling over his own precipice of release.

She clung to him tightly, feeling his chest press against hers and… there – his heartbeat. Rapid, racing, constant… alive. His breath warmed her neck. His fingers stroked against her skin, embracing her, loving her, still… alive.

"Matthew, darling," she breathed unconsciously, and he raised his head to look at her. There was such adoration in his eyes, such pure satisfaction and contentment and fulfilment and nothing was wrong, everything was right, as he smiled breathlessly down at her only… she realised with a sharp, sick twist in her gut that nothing was right, no matter how hard she tried to believe it was.

Her hand covered her mouth but he was already stroking his fingers along her hot cheek, his lips moving and –

"My darling Mary, I… love you," he whispered.

A sob broke from her and she curled away, away from his darling, unknowing eyes and his innocent words and smile. He was pure and she was defiled and had tainted him with it and… wrong, she had been so wrong, and he had apologised with such heartfelt honesty to her for really nothing at all and what had she done?

"I'm – sorry," she gasped, wriggling away from him and curling her shoulders defensively as another sob wracked her body. "I'm so sorry."

Matthew sat up, worried, uneasiness pooling in his belly. He felt suddenly cold, and clammy. "What is it?" he asked, trying to quash the tremor in his voice. His hand lay softly upon her shoulder and she wrenched it away. She didn't deserve him –

"I can't," she sobbed brokenly. "I – can't, Matthew, I'm – sorry, please –"

"Mary –"

"Oh God!" She sat up and hugged her arms around her knees, as if curling into a ball might protect her from him and herself and the world and… Pamuk, or his memory, that she knew would cover her forever.

A worried frown creased Matthew's brow, and he shuffled onto his knees. He moved his hand close to Mary, not quite touching her, he didn't understand… She'd wanted this, she'd led him here, she'd encouraged him with every breath and touch and he knew, he knew that she had chosen him now and…

"Mary please, tell me what's wrong," he pleaded with her, unknowing that guilt wracked her very soul, crushing her under its weight. "Please – I'm sorry, if you – regret what we've done, we can – make it alright, darling – we can –"

"He was here!" her anguished exclamation was unconsciously screamed, muffled into her knees and the sheets around them, echoing into the suddenly ice-like air.

TBC

A/N: Thank you ever so much for reading :) Very curious to know what you think, it honestly means the world to me and excites me so much to see how you think it's unfolding. Thank you!