A/N: So I am pretty sure that three chapters in one day evens us out for that month I took off, right? Okay, I'll see you in a month. JK. I don't know when I will see you. All I can say is that some people think Matthew is right and some people think Mary is right and let's just admit that the other title to this story is: It's Complicated. This story stretches me as a writer because in real life I like someone to be right and someone to be wrong. Too bad in real life that isn't always possible. Also, just so you know, I am aware that this is not real life but a fanfiction story based on a show that I do not own. Unfortunately.

Chapter Thirty Three

Mary does not come to dinner. She does not wish to be disturbed and even Declan's cheery chatter cannot stop Matthew from imagining her alone in that room, the room where, less than twenty four hours ago, they laughed and kissed and touched. He remembers the moment, after taking off her nightgown and grasping her hands above her head, how they looked at each other in the moonlight, as if they finally might put a name to what's always been between them–a word as simple and as difficult as love.

It's all a knotted mess in his gut. Last night, he made an assumption and so did she, but neither of them spoke their intentions aloud. This morning, to be lectured, to hear Mary repeat over and over, that she would never marry again, not just Matthew, but anyone, as if that made it less personal or hurtful, was the perfect penultimate act to the night before. The finale, of course, was the worst, where he told her the thing which nobody ever wanted to tell her. It made him feel as if he was reaching inside the chest of the woman he claimed to love, and ripped out her very heart. How could last night be what it was and today fail so completely? And not just fail but actively destruct anything between the two of them?

Now, he sits in his pajamas, the couch, made up for him, his bare feet on the floor. He cannot sleep. As soon as she lifted her head and started her sod off speech, she pierced him. She hurt him. He knows this. But perhaps for the first time, the fact that she doesn't want him, matters so very little when he considers her alone in that room with only the loss of her husband and baby to keep her company. Only the day before, he fantasized about marrying her, having children with her, and he just broke her heart again, because he can never do any of those things with such a secret between them. He hates himself. He hates the Crawleys. It's always complicated between them; nothing can ever be so simple. He runs his hands through his hair.

"Matthew," she whispers, as she approaches him like a ghost.

His head whips up when he hears her. She's braided her hair back from her face, which glows in the moonlight. She's cried. Though he can't see tears now, he can find the evidence of them–puffy eyes, sparkling pupils, the drawn mouth. In her bare feet, he thinks she's never looked lovelier but he doesn't know how to communicate this, to explain that by going into that room and coming back out again, she's done something tremendous. His heart softens in his chest. She still doesn't understand her own strength; no one gives her enough credit (including himself), do they?

"God, Mary." His voice throbs with pain for her.

He sees her mouth tremble. "Please. I'm sorry. It's probably not fair, and I know you're upset with me about earlier but I just cannot–" She presses her clasped hands between her small breasts in supplication.

"That's not why I am upset, Mary." He shakes his head. "This has nothing to do with me or any of that. I only...Oh darling," the endearment slips out. "Tell me what I can do for you."

Until this moment, they both remain still, a distance apart–Matthew sitting, Mary standing. But in a rush, she is in his arms, on his lap, pressing her face to his neck and holding onto him. She chooses to move forward and he catches her and there is something lovely and poetic about it. This is what he can do for her.

And of course, there is the fact that this is a first. They've never quite tried holding onto each other before.

His arms come around her too and he both feels and hears her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. She presses her lips lightly to his neck but then immediately returns her face to the place between his shoulder and neck.

He leans back against the couch, still sitting, and covers her feet, spilling over the edge of his lap, with his blanket. He presses a kiss to her hair and then finds he must keep his lips and nose there for awhile. They hold each other tightly; it is at no point relaxed; every moment is a choice to go on holding onto one another. And perhaps because this wasn't always possible, he understands this is a privilege for both of them, when for so much of their relationship, so many things stood in the way of simply putting their arms around one another, including their own stubbornness.

There are no words to say and perhaps because of that, his throat fills with a lump. The tenderness, the willingness between them, needs no words and there is no magic to take away her type of pain. They go on sitting for so long, silently, he wonders if she sleeps but then she shifts in his arms and he breathes her in.

"I didn't tell you to hurt you," he whispers into her hair. "I didn't want to tell you. I never wanted to be the one to tell you."

"I know," she murmurs and tilts back to look him in the eye. "Oh, Matthew. It's not your fault that no one ever has the courage to tell me anything important but you."

He laughs quietly, wryly. "Courage?"

"Well," she pauses to play with a piece of his hair at his forehead. "You saw what I was like...after Mackenzie. So angry and bitter. Perhaps rightfully so. Perhaps not. You didn't know if I would react the same way, telling me–" she swallows. "About the baby, the miscarriage. Oh I don't even know how to talk about it."

"That's all right," Matthew replies, hands cupping her cheeks. "I think it doesn't matter how you speak about it, only that you do and Mary..." His thumbs sweep tears from her cheeks. Has she ever cried in front of him before, just the two of them, hurting, but not angry? Has she ever shared that with him? Let herself? Trusted him? "It wouldn't matter to me if you were angry or bitter–"

"Or if I took it all out on you?"

"Or if you took all out on me. I would still–"

She closes her eyes against what would be his next word so he swallows it for her sake. "I would still," he ends quietly.

She lays her head on his shoulder, takes another breath. "Can I ask you a something?"

"Of course." He takes one of her feet in his hands and warms it.

"Did you...Did you put the stockings back like I asked?" Her voice is small. She feels small in his arms. "I've always wondered."

"Yes. His right pocket. Just as you asked." He closes his eyes against her hair. "They were never mine to keep."

"Do you hate me for bringing him up?" she asks timidly after a moment. "I can't erase him. Not even for you."

His heart quickens. Not even for you.

"He shouldn't be erased, Mary," Matthew replies. "Maybe I didn't always understand that but he shouldn't be erased for anyone."

Her heart speeds up against his chest.

Her voice is hushed, as if even she is surprised by what she says, her brown eyes wide when she examines his face: "You do still. You truly do."

Another man might not understand their code–what she is saying and what she is asking him not to say.

"I do still," he repeats, voice thick with the one word he cannot say. "I always have. I always shall."

"I've been unfair to you," she admits. It is not an easy admission from a woman like Lady Mary.

He plays with the end of her braid, tickling her wrist so she burrows into him. "And I've been unfair to you." She leans back to look at him again. "What are we going to do about it?"

She shakes her head, face coming near enough for their noses to brush. "I don't know," she kisses him as if their lips are magnetized, as if she is spellbound. "I don't know." She pauses; he holds his breath. It's as if she is trying to figure out exactly what about him, them, has them always coming back to this. Then her mouth shifts over his, opens, and she moans, their tongues tangling together so everything is vivid in his head. His hands slide up over her nightgown, over her covered beauty mark, and into her hair. Their noses brush again as she changes the angle of the kiss. He leans back, gently tugging on her bottom lip to follow. She moans again. Her hands are warm on his neck, then his cheeks; her nails rake through his hair as they drown in the kiss by the moonlight. It's luxurious and full of words that he keeps buried because she asked him to do so and because they can't be said, the kiss is only more intense. He sucks on her top lip, changing angles again and again, taking his bottom lip into his own mouth to soothe it with his tongue.

"Matthew?" she asks. "I don't want to hurt you. This isn't like Edith's wedding. Last night, I thought. It's just...What you want? What you thought last night meant? I can never–"

He kisses her in acquiescence and she slides like a snake around him, her hips on either side of his where she can surely feel his arousal for her, for this. "It's all right," he whispers, against her neck, aware of what he is agreeing to, as she unbuttons his top with fumbling fingers. She is already quivering before he cups her breasts, rubbing against the fabric.

"Matthew," she breathes into his mouth. "I–I want to..."

Apart of him knows they shouldn't for the very reason Sybil worried over. But a part of him doesn't care and this is the part he listens to now. How can he choose logic when she is rubbing along the length of him? Her lips are on his neck, eager, willing. Now, his hands are on her hips, helping her to roll deliciously over his lap. She needs this. In some strange way, he knows she is asking because she needs this and he wants this. What more is necessary?

He takes the nightgown that's ridden up past her knees and slips his hands beneath it. She arches against him when he touches her unexpectedly, removing the barrier between them. "Matthew," she moans, urging him on. He never–like this–with Lavinia. He wonders, briefly, if Mary did this with Mack. He decides he doesn't care as her fingers yank at his pants, pressing herself to him. His fingers flick her nipples beneath the tent of her night gown.

Then she is rising, her hands around his neck. Their eyes hold on to one another, as she lowers herself onto him, slowly, shuddering the whole way. He licks salt from her throat when she leans back with pleasure and settles astride him. "I've never done this before," she admits against his skin. Perhaps he should not feel pleasure at the idea that this is new for both of them but he does and he doesn't have the will to berate himself over it.

He kisses her and can't stop his hips from rising from the couch, into her. "Me neither. Do you think we can figure it out?"

"Yes." She lets out a groan that may or may not be an answer to his question. It may have nothing to do with the question at all.

She moves over him, again and again, both of them hushing their pleasure with the other's mouth. He bites her lip, tastes blood, and before he can apologize, she's only moving more quickly against him, settling on top of him even more deeply. Their heavy breathing is a type of music that only makes his desire keener. His hands slide behind her, cupping her bottom, as she spreads her thighs further apart. As soon as she does, she cries out, as if he reached some secret place inside of her.

"My God, Mary." He peppers kisses to her covered shoulder while his hands play with her breasts beneath her nightgown, then touches her most intimately where they are joined. "You're magnificent."

She is and for this moment in time, she is his. There are no assurances for longer than that. He understands that and yet he cannot resist her.

She shudders to a stop, falling forward where he catches her and moving his hips upwards into her a few more times, while her muscles tighten around him, before he too finishes. They are slumped together, attached in every way possible. And maybe that doesn't mean what it should but when he kisses her, brushing her hair back from her sweaty face, he tastes hope on her lips.

"Say it again," she nearly pleads.

He know what she is asking. He understands as no one else can. And still he must ask. "Say what again?"

"You know," she whispers.

"I do still," he murmurs, kissing the corner of her mouth. "I always have." His lips kiss the tip of her nose as her eyes slide shut in contentment. "I always shall." He kisses one of her closed eyes.

"How?" she asks softly, lazily. "Why?"

"I tried to stop, you know. So many times. And I never could. Then I decided I didn't want to stop," he explains as if it makes sense.

It does make sense, at least to Mary. "Mmm," she hums. "Will you come to my bed?"

"Mary..."

"To sleep," she laughs a little before settling against him again. "To sleep. I don't think I could bear to be alone tonight. And I wouldn't want anyone with me but you anyway."

This is a start. This is some kind of admission.

He's helpless against her and lifts her as she only wraps herself more tightly around him, walking to her bedroom. They settle beneath the covers and she curls to his side, her hand over his heart. He can't help but think what it would be like for this to be real every night. But for now, he strokes her hair, presses a kiss to her forehead, and does not tell her that he loves her.

A/N: So can we barter? Since I wrote three chapters, can I get a review for each? Please and thank you, darlings.