Downton Abbey Comment Ficathon
With the new season upon us, and fandom all extra-enthusiastic, I figured now would be a great time for this. Because there can never be enough Downton Abbey fic, and there certainly isn't enough now!
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Still Here - Sybil/Branson -voyeurism
She sees the way Mary looks at Matthew when she thinks he isn't looking, with a kind of soft sadness that speaks to a persistent internal ache, and she once thought she'd never understand it. Then one day, she and her mother and her sisters crowd into the car, Branson at the wheel, and she understands precisely.
The atmosphere is subdued, what with the recent news of war, still Mama manages to occupy all of Branson's conversation, asking for his opinions on the war, if he'll enlist (imagine Branson fighting! merely the thought turns her stomach), and Edith worms her way in too, leaving Mary to stare moodily at the passing scenery and her to simply listen. Except she can't. Instead she finds herself staring at the back of his neck, the curve of his ear, the close-cropped brown hair that sticks out from his chauffer's cap. She catches the ghost of a smile as he turns to reply to Lady Crawley, and her heart suddenly knows that speech - all those conversations they used to have on freedom and rights and politics - will never be enough again.
She no longer has words - because there is a war on, because Matthew is already determined to enlist, because all of her causes seem so childish and silly in light of the possibility that many of the men she sees every day may be walking ghosts come Christmastime -so she watches instead. She watches him on their drives, silent now, weighed down by burdens neither can carry alone, though they both attempt it proudly, and quite miserably. He's so quiet while he's driving it's as if he's physically left. She would have hated it before, hated the distance, but now she only uses it to study him. There are creases appearing in his brow, wrinkles in his once-perfect uniform. His hands grasp the wheel with an unnerving tightness. And his smile, once so free, is rare now. She wonders if they will ever conquer this, even when the war ends.
Sleep often eludes her now, and she finds out that he haunts the library at night, always with the door open and a candle burning to alert her father to his presence, but it is a haunting all the same. He is a ghost amongst the books, and she begins to haunt the stairwell, giving into the selfishness and dwelling in the darkness as if she is the one touched most horrifically by this war, as if her mere gaze is enough to keep him tied to this earth, to this house, to her. On the sixth night of her vigil, her sister creeps down the stairs and sits beside her. Once she follows her gaze, she touches their fingers together, her hand cold in the night. Mary has never been one for signs of true affection, but this is more.
This is solidarity.
She realizes she's lucky in a way. Whereas Matthew is gone, shipped off to battle, Branson is still here. For the moment. For long enough.
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Gah, BEAUTIFUL. This is such a great piece, so wonderfully vivid, and I love the moment with Mary at the end.
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Again, sorry for the formatting mixups. I am trying to stay in touch with my fave fandoms, but limited internet makes that frustrating sometimes. And mobile LJ can make me feel like a dunce haha.
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