A/N: Hello! It's been a while, and I apologise, but I can only say how touched I am by your continued support and enthusiasm for this fic even while I've been away. I had a wonderful holiday, and thank you so much for your kind reviews and comments!

Particular thanks and tea and cookies must go to Pemonynen this chapter, for being an absolute rock about it, and as always to EOlivet for her unceasing encouragement and finesse!

And, enjoy..!

Chapter Eighteen

He'd asked her to stay. He wanted to stay, with her, in their bed, like… this. He'd… asked her to stay.

Mary flushed breathlessly, stroking his cheek with shaking, disbelieving fingers, loving him, without the slightest doubt that if it was her choice, he would not stay… but he'd asked her. And she adored him for it.

"You don't have to ask," she whispered nevertheless, lips against his cheek, clutching tightly at his collar. "You don't ever have to ask me for that, but – thank you for asking it anyway, and – I wish that you would!"

"Of course." Matthew's voice was shaky, scared – almost terrified – but that breathless, anticipating fear was overborne by the utterly delighted, happy grin that sparkled across his features. "Of course I did, and – I will – oh, Mary." He kissed her again, and this time it was familiar and unguarded, unfettered, and that felt so… new.

Consciously, Matthew exhaled as he kissed her, recognising the sensation of the softness and warmth of her lips under his and her body under his hands. He'd been so careful, so careful, to keep his touch from straying too far in recent weeks. It had seemed too dangerous, too tempting, too volatile, when they remembered… but he did not want to remember. He wanted to re-learn her, her touch, her taste, and then they had not been married and now they were, and they could.

Awareness of this, the freedom of it… was intoxicating. Empowering. Exhilarating. Arousing. They could.

Mary felt as though the very air shifted around them in recognition, similar thoughts spiralling through her pleasure-fogged mind as her husband kissed her, and kissed her, and she felt his hand move – oh, for weeks now she'd trembled with unsatisfied anticipation, both of them too careful of it – but now she felt it, sighed, squirmed up against him, as his fingertips skimmed from her waist, up, to rediscover what felt so familiar, so right, his skin against the silk of her nightdress. As his thumb brushed the side of her breast – tentatively, hesitantly, as if he sought permission (she wordlessly gave her consent with a low murmur against his lips) – she shuddered… and gasped sharply, stiffening in his arms.

He was her husband, and yet for three months he had not been her husband; not… properly. As they had kissed, before, the prospect of coming together in this way, of making love, as husband and wife, in their bed, had seemed still an impossible dream. Too much to hope for, it had been too long, so much had changed… So much had changed. Everything had changed. She had changed. Everything was… so very, very different, from any time they had before, and… Mary was suddenly very, very aware of it.

Matthew's hand stopped, half upon her breast, lifting his head and noticing things in this stilled moment that had seconds earlier been beyond his consciousness. The tick of the clock, the wind outside, the sheets of his bed that smelt so different, now, of Mary.

"What is it?" he breathed, blinking down at his wife, afraid of the sudden apprehension in her eyes. Every nerve and fibre of his body was on edge, aware, hypersensitive to her.

Mary bit her lip. She'd broken the moment, bitten again by her own vanity, the ridiculousness of this mocking her mercilessly. But… this, with Matthew, was still so new, and… how could she take it for granted? When everything they'd shared had been so long ago, so…

"It's – silly," she gasped, blinking harshly against the threat of moisture in her eyes. "But since we last –" How long ago it seemed, how young and stupid they were! She breathed. "I've changed, Matthew."

She was nearly shaking in his arms, and Matthew, distressed, lifted his hand from her torso to touch her face, cautiously, comfortingly.

"I know, darling. We've both changed – God, I know that! Things have… been difficult, but… isn't it good that this is different? Isn't that… what we wanted?"

"Yes! Oh, Matthew, it isn't that…" She closed her eyes and took a shuddering, fortifying breath before opening them again, her gaze clear and unblinking, meeting his. The smallest of smiles touched the corner of her lips. It had been so long… "It's been five months," she breathed, "And being five months pregnant, I'm afraid you can't expect me to look quite as I did when –"

Matthew's odd, shaky laugh cut her off. She stared at him, and he stared back at her, lips gently parted as his darkened eyes roved across her changed figure.

"You can't know how much that pleases me, my dear," he finally said with something approaching reverence in his voice.

It was true. He only thought of it now, only realised it, because till this point he hadn't allowed himself to think of her in this way at all. Because he didn't want to remember… If her slim, naked body in his arms writhed against his own just as it had, and she was just as she had been, he would remember, and – it was good that this was different. A faint chill of memory ghosted through him, and he shivered, as if to tangibly brush it away. This was now, and new, and them.

Now, he allowed himself to look at and fully realise his wife's changed, beautiful… beautiful form. Her slender neck, her freckle-dotted chest, her… rounder, fuller breasts, accentuated by the soft drape of silk that covered them. Raising himself higher on his elbows, holding himself above her, he saw now with adoring wonder how her nightdress clung over the swell of her belly, framing it, falling away across her shapely, sculpted legs… And he loved her, was overcome by her beauty, overwhelmed by the surge of deep, devastating desire that pulsed through his veins.

How had he been blind to this? To her?

He knew why. He had not let himself see (what an utter, utter fool he was), had been too afraid of his own desire, and what it meant. He had been ashamed by it.

Shaking with heady anticipation, he lowered his head to kiss her. "My God, you are beautiful…" he whispered against her lips as they touched, slipped together, over, apart, together… Deepening, tasting, exploring… relearning.

Mary's low, appreciative hum encouraged Matthew, and his hand slipped down once more from her cheek, down the smoothness of her neck, her chest, finding its place finally on her breast in the gentlest caress. He groaned, and felt her tremble, and slowly… so slowly, his lips followed the path of his fingers. Her jaw, collarbone, so familiar to him (he fought the memory, pushed it away), fingers teasing the silk over her breast, baring it… lips tasting, sucking gently, and God, it was too much.

Her fingers were buried in his hair, her chest rose and fell with sharp, gasping breaths under his lips. It was glorious. Their legs had shifted together, one of Matthew's thighs nestled heavily between both of hers, and when she ground instinctively up against him, he groaned loudly around her breast.

Oh, God, it was happening. For months, they'd denied this, denied any thought of it. Months of being married, just not… properly. And now they were together, in the dark, husband and wife, aware only of soft mattress and sheets and skin, each other, and memories of sensation flooded back thick and fast. They were impossible to stem, it was too much, too perfect, they were too aware… Too conscious of it, of what this meant. It was too momentous. And the more arousal speared between them, the more they felt it, the more they remembered, the last time they had been like this… Trying desperately to forget that, and the pain that had followed… And the fear and the shame that Matthew had for so long since associated with such feelings, without warning, flooded helplessly over him.

He cried out, frustrated, fearful, as his arousal chilled as fiercely as it had arisen. Determined not to lose this – they were together, this was happening, he couldn't lose this now – he dragged his lips over her breast again, his palm teasing the other, his free hand slipping down the curve of her hip, but… nothing. He could not recapture it, and the more he tried, the more he failed, and… it was impossible. Mary was shaking so much from his ministrations to her sensitive body that she didn't notice at first when he stilled, when his lips had stopped their caress, when he then began to shiver in her arms.

"Matthew…" she breathed, stroking his hair and over his back, her own pleasure forgotten as the air around them seemed to cool and unwelcome memories of nakedness and shame pricked relentlessly back. But she didn't understand, he'd come to her, he'd asked her, he loved her. "What's –"

"I can't..." His voice was muffled against her chest, and she felt a dampness that she feared were tears, now, rather than the warm, wet heat of his tongue that she'd known only moments ago. "God, Mary, I – can't, I want to – oh, God, I want to…"

His breath shuddered through him, and Mary eased him up, taking his face in her hands, her eyes flicking between his, narrowed in distress.

Her brow creased to a gentle frown. "I don't understand…"

"For God's sake, I can't, I am – unable!" More harshly, more bitterly; threatening shadows of his former anger flashing across his face that made Mary blink. He pushed himself away, hunched over on the edge of the bed, Mary's fingers left grasping air where he had been.

She sat up, and reached gingerly out to his shoulder. He flinched but did not move. He seemed to simmer with frustration, pent up inside without release… betrayed by his own body. Slowly, Mary eased herself to perch behind him, ran her hands down his shoulders and arms, feeling him stiffen momentarily before relenting to her gentle, awkward embrace.

She could think of nothing to comfort him, still didn't fully understand, and so bit her lip, still stroking his arms as her chin rested on his shoulder. Soon he whispered; a quiet, broken sound. "How can I forget?" he asked, limply.

"I don't know."

"I want to," he whispered bitterly. "I want to, and I want – you, so much – you must know that."

"I do." She dropped a little kiss just behind his ear, and sighed heavily. "Don't… blame yourself, Matthew. There's no point in it when I am as much at fault for –"

"Oh don't be -" Matthew snapped, stopped himself, and stood up brusquely. Frustration raged within him. "You made one helpless mistake, we've laid all that to rest, but I have only let you down! As a friend, as a lover if that's how you'd ever have classed our relationship; and I've been a pretty terrible husband to you since then. And even now I want to I can't – and what if I never – oh, God, I'm sorry."

He strode towards the door, shaking his head. Before his hand could touch the doorknob it reached for, Mary had risen labouredly to her feet.

"Where are you going?" she challenged him.

"Back to bed," he returned with a miserable shrug. "I am no good to you here, am I?" His shame would not allow him to stay.

Her hands balled into tight fists of rage at his implication, and how obstinately pitiful his self-worth was.

"Do you think that – that is all I care about?" she gasped furiously, gesturing between them at their flushed bodies, to which their nightclothes now clung with sweat. Matthew's eyes widened, but she carried on, one hand resting protectively on her belly as if she might shelter her child from this. Perhaps it was too much, but he was being ridiculous! "Is that what you think of me now, that I am a – slut who sees no point in you if can't – service me in bed? What if I just wanted to be with you?"

"Why would you want to be?" he flung back, anger coursing through him. "When I have done nothing but cause you injury?"

"Are you being purposefully so obtuse? Matthew, I love you –"

"Then you're a fool to do so –"

"Oh, for heaven's sake!"

"Mary, I'm sorry," he finished, lowering his head, knowing that he had shattered this (whatever this had been between them) irreparably.

Mary bristled. "Go, then," she said bitterly. "But sometimes, Matthew Crawley, you are a coward. An absolute coward, who runs away from his troubles."

"My trouble is myself. I can hardly run away from that."

She could only shake her head, and turn away; and moments later she heard the door behind her slam with unnecessary force.

Matthew left for work very early the next morning, without breakfast and only a muttered excuse about needing to get there before the post came that day. Mary barely looked at him.

He didn't blame her.

All night, and all day, her accusing words had rung loudly in his head, impossible to ignore. He knew she was right, he knew he was a coward and a pretty shameful excuse for a man and a husband, but he couldn't begin to know what to do about it. He'd tried, hadn't he? He wanted to make things right, hadn't that been the main thing? He'd thought so, at the time.

This, though… seemed beyond his control, which seemed ridiculous, and infuriated him as it made him burn with shame. Mocked by his own body, tormented for his past sins, that was the only way he could see it. After ignoring, rejecting, denying the reality of his beautiful Mary for so long – after months of being ashamed to desire her, of refusing to allow himself to, of convincing himself that he must not because it had led only to suffering – was physical inability now his punishment for such stupidity?

He felt wretched. How could he be unable to love his wife? What was wrong with him? All afternoon, his work was the last thing on his mind as he sat alone at his desk, and thought of Mary, of everything about her… Forcing past the self-imposed barrier he had shielded those thoughts behind, to think of her body, her breath, her touch, her taste, all of her, that he'd been so scared to consider for so long. He closed his eyes and tried to think of her, tried to forget everything else, just her, and them… and every time, the moment the heat within him began to build, and stir, he became too conscious of it and it faded without trace. And the harder he tried, the more his frustration simmered, until beads of sweat prickled his hairline and his body trembled with effort, until the blossoming, aching love and desire he was clinging to in his heart became lost within his concentration and anger.

At last he decided that his office was hardly a place conducive to working out the mess of his body and mind, and left early, choosing to bicycle a lengthier, more secluded route home from the station through the Abbey's estate. Truth be told, he couldn't bear to face Mary. She must either hate him or – worse – pity him. In the back of his mind somewhere he knew that he could not overcome this without her. But he was too afraid of trying again, and failing again, and her thinking less of him than she already must.

Matthew Crawley, you are a coward.

A coward, a sinner, a cruel and, apparently impotent, husband. He was hardly a man, or so it felt.

His mind flashed back unhelpfully to so long ago; that day, that argument, that dinner, that evening… The Turk. A sick wave of jealousy flushed over Matthew as he remembered. He didn't want to remember, no wonder she'd – oh, God. He couldn't think like that. He wanted to forget.

It was not until the evening began to draw in that Mary saw him. She'd been out herself, escaped to the Dower House for afternoon tea and the distraction of Granny's gossip from Aunt Rosamund's latest letter. She hadn't wanted to see Matthew. She was sick of his self-pity, and angry with him for falling back into it. For giving up. For not being man enough about it to have some self-respect.

Staring out of the car window, she sighed deeply. She knew Matthew, and… she knew how her barbed words must have stung him, and… it wasn't his fault. Thinking back to the previous night, he had loved her, he had wanted her. He'd said so, and she'd believed him. And hadn't she felt that restraint, that frustration, that longing for more in his kisses?

As the car drew up to Crawley House, she saw him; crouched outside on the path beside his bicycle. His jacket lay flung over the wall, and he'd rolled up his shirt sleeves. Oil stained his hands, and forearms, and an ache of love burst in her chest. She wondered if he'd even known she was out, if he'd stayed out of the house only to avoid her. She wasn't sure she could blame him, but then she'd long ago tried to stop blaming herself.

"What on earth are you doing?" she called out curiously, neutrally, stepping out of the car.

Startled, Matthew glanced around at her before blinking fixedly back at the workings of his bicycle in front of him.

"Got a stone caught in the chain," he muttered. "And it needed a bit of maintenance anyway."

Mary watched as he pursed his lips, seeing the muscles of his forearms tense and flex, before something within the bicycle's mechanism snapped and clicked. Matthew grunted in satisfaction, sitting back against the wall and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a faint smear of oil mingling with the sweat on his brow. Mary smiled.

"I didn't know a bicycle was so complicated," she admitted.

"It isn't really. Pretty easy to fix, if you know how."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad. Is it serviceable again?"

Matthew stretched an arm out and ran his finger along the freshly oiled chain, wondering at how some things were so easily mended. If only he could mend himself…

"Yes, I should think so."

"Ah, good."

The late afternoon sun shone warmly in the sky, and Mary wandered away from her husband into the garden. Somehow, she knew he would follow her. She sat down carefully on the little white-painted bench, twirling a daffodil contemplatively between her fingers.

Matthew stood up slowly, stretched, grimacing at the feel of his shirt clinging damply to his back. He did follow her, and sat down beside her, hands in his lap, careful distance maintained.

They were silent for a while.

"I'm sorry –"

"Do you know –" They both began at the same time, laughed, and shook their heads. Both stared at the daffodil, not at each other.

Matthew spoke first.

"I'm sorry about last night," he said quietly. "And about this morning. And… for all of it. Please don't think any of it reflects on you, I wish –"

"I don't," she interrupted. "I know that, darling. I only wish I could help you."

He smiled, tapping his fingers together slowly. Then,

"What were you going to say?"

"Nothing much, only that I felt the baby move, or kick, or something, for the first time last night. After you'd gone, I think it knew I was –"

"Oh, Mary…"

She said it so calmly, so simply. Matthew gazed at her, overwhelmed, aching to take her hand and at last he did, grinning tremulously as her fingers tightened around his. Conflicting emotions surged between them, around them, within them. It was their baby, she was so beautiful, but, but… Always, that 'but'. How could it be forgotten? It was impossible.

A sigh trembled between them.

"Matthew?"

"Yes?"

She took a breath. "Do you know when it was, that I realised I loved you?"

He realised he had no idea. He hadn't the faintest.

"No, I don't." He still couldn't fathom why she did, or ever had.

"I realised it far too late. When it was too late, after… but, before we… I knew when you came to see me, that day. All at once, I just knew that I did."

"Oh. Why… are you telling me now?" His finger absently rubbed along hers, stroking, soothing, distracting.

Mary licked her lips. "Because I wanted you to know why I… It – overwhelmed me, you see." She tossed her head, trying to cool herself, bile rising in her throat at the more unpleasant memories but knowing she must tell him. It was… comforting, to do so. Cathartic. "I hadn't known because I hadn't realised… there was more to it. What we had. When – Kemal – came into my bedroom –"

Matthew stiffened uncomfortably, and she stopped.

"No… go on," he said quietly. It stung, but it was like drawing out a thorn, or pouring antiseptic on a wound. And he still didn't know why she was telling him, but she wanted to, and so he dutifully listened.

She nodded, and shrugged. "I didn't turn him away because I stupidly thought that I already knew, that it wouldn't… be that bad, if he was going to refuse to leave anyway." A sudden, bitter laugh slipped from her lips, and Matthew's fingers clasped more tightly around hers. "Because we had done it, and it hadn't ever hurt so I thought it wouldn't matter, and he was leaving in the morning anyway. Stupid, really."

"Darling, you couldn't have –"

"No, don't excuse it. There's no point in that." She laid a hand on his arm gently, meeting his eyes for the first time. And though they were full of pain, there was… something else. She smiled. "I felt horrible in the morning. Never mind that he'd –" The words trailed into a gasp; that was too much, still, to speak of.

Matthew's thumbs still stroked, stroked, stroked over hers, and she concentrated on the sensation, drawing strength from him. "I can't tell you how awful I felt. I wanted to rid myself of the whole thing, of every trace of him on my skin but I couldn't. I wanted to forget all of it, but I couldn't. And then you came, and you were so –" She stopped, blinked, shook her head, struggling to express it. "I know that you hated me for what we did then. That I took you there, and we – after I'd –"

"Mary, please…"

His voice broke, and Mary looked up to see his blue eyes glittering with unshed tears. Smiling through her own, she sniffed and lifted a hand to his cheek.

"But I want you to know, Matthew," she said softly. "Because you've thought I must hold you in comparison – no, don't pretend that you haven't, it's alright – you thought I was heartless and perhaps in a way it was heartless of me. For that I truly am sorry, darling. But can you understand that I wanted to? I wanted to… know you again because I thought you could take it away; or something like that anyway."

Only now did she blush, her fingers trembling in his hand, and they smiled faintly. "Perhaps it isn't very proper of me to say, but I thought you should know. That – he was everything that was wrong, and bad, and you were – well, the opposite. And if you ever – ever – thought that it was anything like the same… Well, you'd be very wrong."

Matthew knew, because such openness was so unlike Mary, how utterly sincere she was. He blinked, and looked down at their entwined hands, resting lightly on the top of Mary's rounded belly. He still didn't want to think of Pamuk and his wife, it still hurt, but now that he did… What she had said… He couldn't associate their child with that, with something that had been so wrong. And beneath his hand he felt a flutter, an indefinable shift, and he smiled breathlessly. He didn't know what to say, and a strange lightness glowed in his chest. He didn't know how to feel.

Beside him, Mary exhaled a deep breath, and he was suddenly aware of sunlight on the back of his neck and the scent of flowers. Of his wife's fingertips against his palm, of her warmth beside him. He had loved her… so much. And if she had realised it a little later – well, he didn't blame her for that now. He knew, and that was what mattered. She loved him. They had been happy. They had been so happy, if so briefly, and it had been so beautiful, so carefree, so… heady, intense, wonderful, what they had shared. And now they were married, and… there was nothing to stand in the way of their happiness again. It was a revelation.

For so long, he'd been trying to forget. But of course, that was impossible. Mary had realised it. The only thing they could do… was remember; and in that, find new, better memories.

Tenderly, he lowered his head and kissed the back of her hand. Her skin was like silk against his lips, and he breathed, and straightened again to kiss her cheek. His lips lingered there, softly, telling her everything he couldn't yet say, and then he kissed her lips.

"Thank you, my darling," he breathed against her mouth. Leaning back, he suddenly seemed to remember the state of himself; his dampened, clinging shirt, the dirty oil smears on his arms and hands, his open collar. "I'd better… clean up before dinner," he murmured, smiling.

"I think you better had," Mary laughed, and indulgently watched him walk inside with enormous and overpowering affection. For a few minutes more, she enjoyed the warm sunshine and the peace of the garden. She felt as if an impossible weight had lifted from her shoulders, and she smiled. Stroking the considerable swell where her (no, their) baby lay, she felt… happy.

TBC

A/N: Thank you so much for reading :) I must admit I found it a very difficult, and sensitive, chapter to write, in trying to tie up all their issues in a hopefully cathartic manner to bring them at last to a fresh page together... But I hope very much that it worked for you. I'd love to know what you thought! Thank you :)