A/N: So here is another WiP of mine. Involving lots and lots of war angst and Matthew and Mary :)

I thought that having Mary be married to Patrick during the war would be quite an interesting spin on things, and what might happen when she meets Matthew and they (inevitably) fall madly in love amidst the war, and her loveless marriage, and the events that would be set into motion because of it.

Thank you so much to kehlana for reading through this and discussing this fic with me, the help and polish was truly invaluable :)

Hope you enjoy it… here goes!

Chapter One

Her eyes dwelled upon the endless sea of soldiers, writhing in agony. The dressing station was crowded; the air acrid with the stench of pain, the stink of carbolic soap, the distinctive odour of death. She knew it well. The haze of colours: crimson and dirty green and brown with Flanders mud.

She did not… regret coming here, not in the least! she had undertaken this work as a nurse of her own free will. Partly because she had wanted… a life (how ironic), some purpose beyond paying calls and working for charity and doing the season. To Papa and Mama and Granny and Aunt Rosamund she had stubbornly said over and over that she had wanted to 'do her bit' for the war effort, that it would be quite, quite ridiculous for her to sit about doing nothing when their boys were being slaughtered every day at the Front. Deep, deep down, however… she had come here to get away from Patrick.

Her husband.

Somehow, she had never quite gotten used to that title. By law and deed, yes, she was Patrick's wife… Lady Mary Crawley. She had never loved him; not as a girl, not as a young woman, not the day he had slipped a ring on her finger, and they had married in the village church. But then, she had never expected love, either to feel it or receive it. The first night he had come to her bed, slid between the sheets and coldly and aloofly made her his, (and retreated to his dressing room afterwards) she had known it with an icy certainty… she could never love him. The… marital act had always been a duty, a wifely duty.

Not that she minded; every night Patrick had come to… take her, she had silently put up with it. In the vain hope that one day, this marriage might bear fruit, and… she would provide Downton with an heir.

She and Patrick had married in July, three months after the Titanic sank. After James met his watery end, everyone had thought it was quite prudent to organise the wedding… her wedding, and quite soon they would receive the welcome news that the future of Downton Abbey was secure.

It never came.

Month after month, she had suffered the crushing disappointment, a punishing rebuke… and with it, her deepening sense of shame and incapacity and pitiful worthlessness.

Lady Mary Crawley, whose body was quite clearly incapable of doing the one thing it was expected to do… one thing only. Provide a child, a boy, an heir… and that it either could not or would not do. What use was she, then? What use was she?

She had retreated further and further within herself, becoming colder, more unapproachable, more cold-hearted and remote with every day that passed. Why should she reveal herself – her true self, to a husband who neither understood nor loved her, to a family that she had surely disappointed by her inability to produce an heir? The days had passed, thick and sticky like treacle, and with every passing day her feeling of suffocation, of entrapment, of feeling stifled had grown stronger, deeper, more desperate.

And then… the war had broken out.

Patrick had paid for a commission, then, when it was clear the war would drag on much longer than anyone thought… and mere months later, she had volunteered as a nurse. Everyone had baulked at the idea. The high and mighty Lady Mary Crawley, volunteering at the Front. But her stubbornness had been good for something, at least… she had managed to win this battle.

And so she had fled Downton, that place of disappointment and resentment and hurt… and here she was. Run away from her husband, if only for some time. He wasn't where she was… and they hadn't seen each other in months. Here at last, she had found something, some purpose in cleaning wounds, dressing them and bandaging them up, soothing their pain as well as she could with the softness of her hands… Here she was useful.

"Excuse me – Nurse Mary…" A deep voice broke into her thoughts, and she turned sharply. Sparkling blue eyes met hers.

"Lieutenant Crawley!" she breezed, with a faint smile. "Back again so quickly?"

"Matthew, please… I do hope I'm not disturbing you, but I could do with… some help," He grimaced, and gestured to his upper chest. "There's nothing much wrong, really, it's only a few scratches… but the medic insisted I'd get it seen to," he said softly. "It's – hardly serious…"

"I'll be the judge of that!" Mary said tartly, with a raise of her finely shaped eyebrows. "It is my job, after all, and I shouldn't like to neglect it. If you'll wait on the cot just there… I'll be with you shortly."

"Of course," he smiled shyly, and settled himself on the edge of the empty cot a little way near them.

She assembled what she needed, and proceeded to his side. For some inexplicable reason, she shivered (though not at all unpleasantly) and she took a deep, calming breath as she neared him.

"Now, then," she said briskly, "let's have a look at you."

He nodded. Mary caught his… glance at her, the way his blue eyes pierced her, and very distinctly felt a swoop in her belly. She ignored it. She busied herself with readying the antiseptic, and the carbolic soap, and the bandages… taking rather longer than she should, Matthew thought, quite innocently.

She turned to look at Matthew (Lieutenant Crawley).

"May I?" she asked, rather coldly.

"By all means," he said, dipping his head.

Mary's fingers, trembling a little, worked quickly at the collar of his shirt. A heated blush rose to her cheeks, staining them, and… she paid no attention to it (or tried not to), focusing determinedly upon the task at hand.

She shifted his shirt, the fabric slipping against her skin, slick with perspiration – and exposed the skin beneath his neck. Close up, she noticed a razor burn on the left side of his neck, standing sharply against the paleness of his skin. Mary's fingers brushed over it (quite by accident, she told herself)… and all at once she felt a surge of tenderness, an absurd, shocking impulse to caress the burned flesh and press her lips to his blemished skin...

She looked away, chiding herself. For God's sake… she must pull herself together!

The wound was only an inch or two below his neck. The skin was bruised a dark red, embroidered by a few accompanying scratches at the sides. The shrapnel which was the culprit had been hastily and carelessly wrenched out… and it had left a gash she feared would leave a permanent scar.

Mary tutted softly.

"And to think you said it was merely a few scratches. It's a little more than that, I'm afraid," she said. "But it's not too severe and I'll make quick work of this… Matthew," (another flutter in her belly, unbidden, at hearing his name upon her lips).

"Of course, Nurse Mary… thank you," Matthew offered quietly.

She stole another glance at his exposed skin – but it was not the bleeding injury that caught her eye this time. It was the smattering of rough, dark blonde hair that surrounded it. It covered the little of his chest that she could see, and she imagined it trailing… lower… Mary pursed her lips tightly and shook her head, more than a little annoyed with herself (and Matthew too, though she couldn't imagine why).

She began to clean the wound and apply the antiseptic. The carbolic soap was harsh on his skin. It stung horribly. A hiss of pain escaped his lips, and she felt a stab of regret at his wince.

"Sorry…"

"No, it's – quite alright…"

She bathed the wound further, but … somehow, acutely aware of his eyes upon her. She dressed it neatly, and drew the shirt back, covering his scarred flesh … but taking just a second too long, her fingers lingering just a second more than they ought.

"Thank you, Nurse Mary…"

"There's no need to thank me," Mary replied in rather a clipped voice. "I'm merely doing my duty."

Matthew nodded. She suddenly noticed the way the light caught the glint of his golden hair, the way it highlighted his features, his - handsomeness…

It was a moment before she realised he was speaking to her.

"Do you enjoy nursing?" Matthew asked her shyly, adjusting his tie (or pretending to).

She softened slightly.

"I don't exactly enjoy it… but it does bring me some degree of satisfaction. Which is more than I can say for my life back at home."

"You're jolly good at it!"

Mary inclined her head in thanks… feeling her neck flare with sudden heat. She quelled the sensation. Praise from Matthew… she couldn't quite place her finger upon it, but it made her feel … happier, somehow, made her feel that she was worth something... Her composed stance, her forced calm had, quite against her will, had dissipated in his presence, and at the sweet, sincere compliment from him she felt ridiculously like smiling – yes, she really was smiling!

"And what about you?"

"I came to do my duty to King and Country," Matthew said, "I thought… it wasn't right for me not to enlist, not while so many of my friends had and men were dying already… I wanted to – sort of … do my bit, you see."

Mary nodded. "I see."

There was a brief silence, tense but charged. Her gaze (inadvertently, of course) dropped to his lips, lingering there for a stolen moment before snapping back to meet his eyes. She smiled brightly.

"Well, Lieutenant Crawley –"

"– Matthew –"

"Matthew… I rather hope I won't have to see you again for a while! Do take care of yourself, won't you?" Her tone was meant to be admonishing, but it had only come out sounding flirtatious.

During their conversation, they had moved closer, imperceptibly closer… and Matthew's eyes were boring into her. He smiled gently, but there was a glint in his eye.

"Would you… be very shocked if I said I'd be glad to see you again?"

"I'd think it – very forward of you!" Mary said. "But – be that as it may… I can't say I mind terribly much."

A moment passed.

"Well… goodbye, Matthew."

"Goodbye… Nurse Mary."

He tipped his hat to her and left the dressing station.

Mary released a long breath in the form of a sigh, watching his handsome, retreating figure fading into the distance.

If they were flirting… it was a harmless flirtation; only a distraction, surely, from the war, from the utter despair and destruction and devastation they were surrounded by… Something to take their minds off it, just for a little while. She was Lady Mary Crawley… and she was married.

And if… sometimes, in the days and weeks that followed… she looked up to see his beautiful blue eyes resting on her face with an expression she could not (or perhaps did not want to) read, and if the air between them thickened strangely when they were together… and if their hearts beat just a little faster and their hands and fingertips brushed against each other's more frequently than they should … It meant nothing. Nothing was going to happen between them, that was quite certain. And when the war was over… he would go back to his home in Manchester, and she would return to Downton Abbey, to her husband, to her role as the future Countess of Grantham. Matthew – Lieutenant Crawley – meant nothing to her!

She did not know – she could not know, not then… how very wrong she was.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I would love to know what you thought of it! :)