A/N: So. Here is thirteen. I really wanted to get into Matthew's head, not just my Matthew, but canon Matthew, and what drives him (especially during season 2). The thing about a TV show is you don't get to see every thought and moment of a character's life. So I wanted to explore that a bit here. And of course, I wanted to show you, through Matthew's perspective, how he has gotten to this place, so very far from where he started and so very far from where he would like to be. I would also consider this chapter the end of Part I of the story. We have lots more to go but this is one stopping point. I know people are very attached to either Matthew or Mack. In a way, I understand. But please remember that this is my story and the wiggles and twists and turns and loops I take it on are my choices. I'm not going to change my plan (I am referring to the endgame...see my tumblr "Dear Mack Shippers"). For some reason, I seem to always write stories that are huge long journeys for the characters themselves. Mary & Matthew, the characters this story is centered on, have a long way to go. I can only hope when you see the whole, you will understand my vision, as opposed to now when you are in the dark with only a candle or an iphone :) to light the way, one single step at a time.

Here's another step in that journey.

Chapter Thirteen

Matthew looks in the mirror and does not recognize the man staring back at him. He hasn't recognized this face in a long time, he thinks, as he splashes water on his face. And it's not just the slightly bloated cheeks and bloodshot eyes but the very heart of him, the flesh and the bone of his character whittled away to dust and bones. He feels like dust and bones–ancient, really.

It's funny though. Or not funny but sad, as most things are these days. He feels ancient but all he can think of, the person constantly on his mind, is his own father, young and light of hair with eyes that winked at Matthew as a boy. One memory, of course, pounds into him like waves against the shore, over and over again. He can see his father come in through the door and kiss his mother lightly on the mouth, setting down his black doctor's bag after he finishes his hello to her. "Hello, Matthew!" his father greets and they have dinner which isn't the important part of the memory. It's what comes after. When he was small enough, his father would take Matthew on his knee and ask, "How was your day, son?"

Matthew cannot recall his youthful responses. I played with the yo yo you got me. The cat next door got loose. But Matthew can remember his father's blue eyes, the kindness and attention there when his father says, "You are growing up to be such a good little man."

"I am?" Matthew asks in the memory, only because he likes the rumble in his father's chest and the singular attention of the man who is so tall and strong and brave. "What does that mean?"

His father's answer is always the same. "It means doing the right thing, even when it is hard."

On his father's deathbed, the man gripped Matthew's hand and begged him: "Be a good man. Be an honorable man, my son."

If only his father could see Matthew now.

Or when Matthew snaps at his wife for no reason and pours another drink.

Or when Matthew spills wine all over Cousin Violet. Twice. Or was it three times?

Or two hours ago when he saw–

And said–

God.

Be a good man. Be an honorable man.

For so long, Matthew did just that, even if he didn't feel like it, even if his peers never esteemed him or if it cost him a promotion at work.

Be a good man. Be an honorable man.

Then he met Mary Crawley. God, they'd been young. She'd been so proud and he'd been so stupid. Except when she softened in his arms, in that black dress, over sandwiches for God's sake, as if she had been waiting for him to hold her there, and Matthew knew then why his father gave him that constant, same advice.

Be a good man. Be an honorable man.

Because in the end the most beautiful girl in the room, the girl who makes your breath catch, the girl who keeps you constantly on your toes, ends up in your arms, breathless at your touch. A gift. A reward. More than worth whatever it takes to live up to his father's advice.

It all makes sense.

Until it doesn't.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. He never told her that. He never really explained the most important part.

It was not honorable to dance with Mary, to know it was wrong before he even took her in his arms and her hair brushed his chin, and he felt the silk of her dress, bunching a bit beneath his fingers as he pulled her closer, little by little, moment by moment becoming less honorable of a man. It felt like his last chance; it felt like his life depended on admitting the truth (that it was always her) and pressing his mouth to hers. He needed to kiss the woman he loved but could not have.

Marrying Lavinia was the honorable thing. He knew it and felt it, as if his father's very hand was pressed to his shoulder in agreement. And in time, he would be rewarded. He could love Lavinia like he loved Mary, more than he loved Mary, because this was an honorable love. But it ached and hurt terribly, as if his tendons and muscles were pulled from his very bones. But no matter the pain, he could be soothed (at least a little) by knowing he kept his promise to his father and knowing that his father–the most honorable man he ever knew–proved that acting honorably always ended well, ended happily.

It ended with you kissing the wife you love and then dropping you black leather doctor's bag and taking your son on your lap after dinner.

It would be worth it, Matthew knew, in the end.

And then he returned from his honeymoon and read Mary's letter and she was water slipping through his fingers. Gone. He could not explain the loss to anyone, even himself. It was not an honorable loss; a good man would not feel Mary's loss so keenly. Somewhere in the midst of it, he realized he could not be happy, not the way his father had been with his mother, with anyone other than Mary.

And the premise Matthew built his life upon became shifting sand beneath his feet.

Sometimes when Matthew drinks enough, his father comes to him.

They don't speak though.

Both are disappointed in one another.

How could his father tell him such a lie?

How could Matthew misunderstand so great a point–an honorable life does not lead to a happy life?

Drunk, Matthew would like to ask his father which is more important–honor or happiness–but he is too angry to speak to the specter.

He didn't mean to come upon Mary and the man she'd brought from America. He only drank a little and then went for a walk, to clear his head, to clear his heart, to prepare for the sight of her–after so long, God–with another man. He must relearn to smile and nod in congratulations and raise his glass without spilling his wine when the engagement is announced. It would be his gift to her. If she could handle his engagement so magnanimously, then he could handle hers in at least an average way.

But what happened on the grounds is not average.

He didn't really care about the man, even now that he was sober. Though he could tell the man loved Mary, would protect her, and that the man knew about Matthew, knew how Matthew hurt her. But Mary's eyes, which were so hard to meet, were filled with such hurt and worry.

God.

Be an honorable man. Be a good man.

Love a woman you can never have. Hate her for having a life without you.

He doesn't want to go tonight. Of course, he doesn't want to go. Lavinia knows it. He can tell she is equal parts excited to see Mary and worried over Matthew's reaction to the whole situation. He does not want to meet Violet's disapproving eyes, the woman who told him once that marriage is a very long time and woke him from a drunken stupor in the library with her cane. You're killing yourself, she hissed. You made your choice; now live with it.

Marriage is a very long time, he repeated to her drowsily, thinking himself hilarious.

I warned you, she snapped. Perhaps you should start listening to me and stop spilling wine all over me at dinner. And by the way, I told Carson never to sit me next to you again. I don't want another frock ruined.

She looked very young for a moment. Now go home. And stop drinking. You're ruining your life and your wife is miserable.

What do you know about Lavinia, Matthew spat. You never even liked her.

I know more than you think, she replied while peering at him. Now get up.

No, he did not want to face that tonight.

Let alone Mary.

God, Mary.

He sweats all through dinner. He wants to drink so badly but he does not want to be the man Mary saw and pitied behind the that tree hours ago. He cannot be that man to her. He has some dignity left. Perhaps.

"And to Mack and Mary," Robert toasts, his voice even and carrying, his face devoid of a smile or a frown. "And their happy engagement. Another generation of an American and English couple," he jokes and looks down at his wife who squeezes his free hand. Matthew knows that this is not easy for Robert. But he is trying. He is trying, out of love for Mary. "And now we look forward to the wedding."

They all toast and Matthew takes a small sip of the wine in front of him. He wants to gulp it but does not. Mary will not look at him but Mack (the American) has no trouble meeting his eye; his look is a warning–if you hurt her...

Robert and Matthew's father were the same. They valued honor and so it was Cousin Violet who came to Matthew and asked him to reconsider marrying Lavinia and not Robert himself.

Robert and Matthew are honorable men.

"Where will you have it?" Lavinia asks. "The wedding? Here or in America?"

Matthew would like to dunk his head in a bowl of ice cold water.

"America," Mary replies smoothly and with warmth as she looks at Mack. "That's home now."

Robert winces.

Cora begins to tear up.

"Of course, you'll all come, Mama," Mary reassures her. "Mack's family has the most wonderful grounds..." She realizes what she just said at the table. She invited them all without thinking and even after she opens her mouth to say something, anything, Lavinia speaks.

"I'd love to see America," her voice is quiet, like voice she used to use with the wishes she no longer expresses to Matthew because he doesn't listen.

"Then you should come," Mary replies and everyone sees the pity she tries to hide.

It is silent. Carson stands on guard. A knife scratches a plate. How awkward. How dismal.

"And of course you'll have to eat your fill of ice cream, Mrs. Crawley," Mack interjects into the silence, smiling widely and genuinely. "It's my family's form of hospitality, you know."

What a top-notch man to invite Matthew and Lavinia. God.

Mary laughs a little into her hand and looks up at him. "And what is my family's form of hospitality?"

Drunken men who call you a whore when you kiss the man you will marry.

Robert holds his breath. Matthew can't imagine that Mack was overly welcomed when he arrived.

"Giving their permission for me to marry their daughter and granddaughter," Mack replies lightly and quickly. The man is smart and funny, someone Matthew would like, if only...

"That's quite a bit of a hospitality," Cousin Violet quips.

"Well, I'll have to repay you with quite a bit of ice cream. What's your favorite flavor?" Mack asks and winks at Dowager Countess so she disguises a laugh as a cough.

It goes without saying that the men join the women immediately and forgo the port and cigars.

Matthew realizes he sweat through his shirt.

It is dark but for the moon shining through the bit of window some maid forgot to drag the curtain across. Matthew waits in the library, several hours after Lavinia has gone home, along with his mother. He told them he wanted to borrow a book. Lavinia did not meet his eye but glanced toward Mary who immediately said, "Well, I'm exhausted. The time change, you know. I'm off to bed."

But he knows Mary. He knows that she likes a book to read before she sleeps. He can only hope, can only bet that even now, an hour since the family retired, she will come down to find a book, any book, to take her mind off what was probably the most wonderful and the most awful day.

He waits and he hopes. He hopes and he waits. It's a little challenge as well. Does he still know her? Is she still the same? Could she be?

Then she appears, like a ghost in her white robe and white nightgown, her hair plaited down her back. She walks on her bare tip toes, as if she would wake someone, though she is so slight, she never could.

"Mary," Matthew says aloud.

She starts, and jumps and presses a hand to her heaving breast before pulling her robe more tightly around her. "You scared me," she breathes.

"I've been waiting," he swallows, "for you."

She shakes her head. "Matthew."

"No," he stands. "It isn't what you think. Today–what I said today...I'm so, so sorry, Mary. I was very wrong. I didn't want you to think that I thought you were–"

"A whore?" she asks, her eyebrow lifted at him, her chin angled up.

I wouldn't want to push in.

It is the same face she wore then.

"I don't think that," he retorts passionately. "That's what I'm trying to say."

"Oh, Matthew," she shakes her head again. "You don't know anything. What if I am in trouble and have to marry him? What if I am exactly what you thought I was?"

He shrugs. "You've never been what I thought you were, Mary. Never."

Her mouth quivers for a moment as if she might speak but then it stills. Finally her whisper is full of life and passion. "I love him. I love him."

"You loved me once too," Matthew tells her without meaning to and takes a step towards her. "I know it."

"Of course I did, Matthew," she complains rather loudly. "Of course I loved you, Matthew. But you married Lavinia–"

"What if I hadn't?" Matthew can't help but ask. He never meant to speak of this but it's a circle. They keep coming back to it. No matter what. No matter how far away she runs. No matter whose rings they wear.

"You don't want to know the answer to that," Mary replies. "You really don't."

"What if?" he persists and takes another step nearer.

She won't meet his eyes until those brown eyes of hers are suddely boring into his. "I would have married you. I would have walked down the aisle toward you and believed in happily ever after and I never would have known that love...love isn't..."

"What?" he takes his shoulder into his hands.

"We never laughed," she snapped. "Do you know that? We never joked or touched or just, God, laughed, Matthew. Everything was dramatic. Everything was hard."

"So I wasn't funny enough for you?" Matthew asks bitterly. "Really?"

"No!" She pushes him away with her palms. "We made each other miserable and if we would have married I never would have known that falling in love with a man doesn't have to be like that. It can be..."

"What?" Matthew would like to shake her. "What?"

"Easy," she whispers, wrapping her arms around herself. "Freeing. Like laughing until your belly hurts. Laughing until your belly hurts from laughing instead of aching from wanting one another when we couldn't have one another."

"I was stupid. I should have–"

"Stop," she begs. "If I would have married you, I never would have met Mack!"

Matthew is silent. He has no cards left to play. She pulls the rug out from under him in a second.

She loves Mack more. It is as easy–as difficult–as that.

Her eyes fill. He doesn't know why until she tells him. "I still can't stand to see you in pain, though. Still." She shrugs. "Tell me what that means," she says helplessly.

"I wish I would have married you right away, before Pamuk, before the war. I wish..."

She takes his hand very gently and with her other hand she traces her fingers along the veins on top of his. "I want to give you some advice," she whispers. "You'll be the next Earl and Lavinia will be Countess someday. You can't afford wishes. Believe me, I know." Her tears spill down her cheeks and she lets his hand go and turns away. "We can't go back," she says with a stronger voice. "Only forward. And Mack is my forward. Just please, only, don't hurt yourself...Don't drink yourself into..."

"Whoever told you that exaggerated," he insists.

She turns back to him. She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. There are curls near her temple. There are tears on her cheeks. "No one told me. I saw today. That wasn't you. That wasn't you at all."

"I miss you," he whispers and wants to touch her but doesn't. She holds herself so tall and straight he knows his touch would not be welcome and he is an honorable man.

"You miss someone else," she tells him shaking her head. "You miss the girl you knew. And I'm not her anymore. I'm not." And then she flees.

A/N: It's been a very long time since we've heard from Matthew and even longer since Mary and Matthew had a conversation. Please let me know what you think.