Ficlet: Lovers Walk
Happy Monday! :D Once again, I'm a day late and a dollar short with these promo shot ficlets, but a brief sweep of Tumblr revealed I'm hopefully not duplicating efforts. And had I known there was going to be an angsty one tonight, I would have written about that!!! :p Oh well, there's always next week. :p
To keep this piece in perspective from the other S3 clips, it's the one where M/M are wearing matching blue suits and sitting at what looks like a restaurant. ;)
Enjoy! :p
Title: Lovers Walk
Rating: K+
Summary: Matthew muses on lovers and fiancees. Inspired by S3 promo shots from NBC Downton Abbey piece during Friday's Olympic coverage.
As he waited outside her door, it occurred to him that Mary had never felt like his fiancée.
It was rather strange, considering they’d been engaged for several months, but the gravity of the title had never quite sunk in for him. Perhaps in some small way “fiancée” was something he’d never associated with her.
Though it wasn’t as if very much time elapsed since he’d seen her once her door opened (had it even been an hour, he wondered - his cheeks growing hotter at the memory), it felt as if every time was a variation on the first time he’d ever seen her - when he’d thought her the most beautiful creature on which he’d ever laid eyes.
However, she was looking at him and frowning. “So, we’re to be one of those couples?” she asked, with an incredulous raise of her eyebrow.
When he merely raised his eyebrows at her in response, she rolled her eyes, then touched her hand to her own lovely blue jacket before - pausing briefly - to touch his chest. His jacket.
“I suppose so,” he answered, and she looked exasperated for a moment before taking his arm.
He couldn’t help but recall the first time she’d ever done so - back in that brief, splendid month when everything seemed so fine. Back then, when he looked at her, all he could see was “Yes.” He would think it every time he was near her, every time their eyes met - as if the sheer intensity of his love-filled gaze could suggest it to her: Yes. Yes. Yes.
Of course, he’d not thought beyond “Yes.” So, when it ended, he didn’t really lose anything. At least that’s what he spent the next two years telling himself.
They strolled through the hotel lobby - with the busy London streets visible through the glass, and he still felt a small pang of remembrance.
London would always remind him of Lavinia.
Her “Yes” was brief, but barely controlled - as if she wished to shout it from the rooftops. It was the first time he’d wondered at the power behind this seemingly dainty girl.
Then all at once, she was his fiancée. Her title seemed almost ceremonial - for it wasn’t one he used often.
It almost seemed to be a title used for the benefit of others. At the front, it was always “Your fiancée looks quite a handsome girl, sir.” and “You miss your fiancée, do you, sir?” and “That letter from your fiancée, sir?”
He’d only ever thought of her as his fiancée. His betrothed, his intended. Nobody ever asked him “So, when’s the wedding, sir?” because they all knew the unspoken futility in planning even past the next day.
“Fiancee” was a title that slipped from her as easily as she regained it. It was as if it was her state of being, rather than a precursor to any individual event.
When she’d adopted it once more, her “Yes” was an “Of course” - tearful and quiet, and she squeezed his hand.
In spite of himself, he found Mary’s hand - squeezing it lightly, as she turned to him with the warmest, most wonderful expression. He remembered searching it out - even, he thought guiltily, three days before his wedding.
Indeed, during his conversation with cousin Violet, and on every occasion since, he’d wondered at the “Yes” he’d never heard.
Remembrance gradually faded back into the deepest, most heartfelt gratitude, which had finally allowed him that “Yes.” Eight months, six years (eight years) later, it was spoken with a firm softness - at once sounding both extremely loud and incredibly quiet. His knee was buried in the snow in painful pleasure, and her voice sounded as warm as her hands were cold.
This morning her hands (and infinitely more) were warm through her gloves as he and Mary entered the restaurant, and were soon led to their table.
If he felt as if he’d been walking to the table with her for years, it was probably because…he had. Only they were not quite so used to being the only ones there.
Around a much larger table after their engagement, he remembered how…it hadn’t felt all that different. As far as cousin Violet was concerned, he was practically fulfilling an expected duty. Indeed, she had favored him with quite the look when she heard the news - as if to say “You don’t expect me to congratulate you for doing exactly as I said in the first place?”
He stepped in front of the host, to pull out Mary’s chair himself. The host gave him the same eye-rolling look as she did, except Mary’s was accompanied by a small smile.
She took the proffered menu with her left hand, and once again - and he was hit with an entirely different sort of remembrance.
There was a reason he’d never been able to think of Mary as his fiancée. How could she be his fiancée when she’d only ever felt like his future wife?
Coincidentally (or not), he’d not bought her an engagement ring.
In 1914, the words had flown out of his mouth faster than he could contemplate a place of purchase, whereas in 1916 there was a jeweler just down the street in London. But this was 1920…
It had been fairly easy to ask for the day from his employers and take the train to Manchester instead of Ripon. To walk the streets he’d known, where he was now an unknown and find the shop several streets away from where he’d lived.
It had been fairly easy, for there was only one ring he wanted to buy for Mary. Only one ring he ever wanted her to wear. Not one that promised a future, but one that embodied it.
As he gazed at her across the table now, the two loveliest words he could think of now ran in almost a constant loop through his head: My wife.
He’d found himself referring to her as such, perhaps more often than he should, but how could he not - when those precious two words were the publicly accepted method of conveying the three words he could only ever say to her in private...
“…Matthew?”
His head snapped up to meet the eyes of his wife across the table, as well as those less pleasant ones of the waiter.
“I’m so sorry,” she was apologizing to the waiter. “But you may have to ask my husband for his order once more.”
As he gave them both a conciliatory, albeit sheepish smile, he was reminded of something even more necessary than anything he’d been pondering. His fiancée, his wife…of course Mary could never be his anything.
The most important thing in the world was that he would always belong to her.
The End.
To keep this piece in perspective from the other S3 clips, it's the one where M/M are wearing matching blue suits and sitting at what looks like a restaurant. ;)
Enjoy! :p
Title: Lovers Walk
Rating: K+
Summary: Matthew muses on lovers and fiancees. Inspired by S3 promo shots from NBC Downton Abbey piece during Friday's Olympic coverage.
As he waited outside her door, it occurred to him that Mary had never felt like his fiancée.
It was rather strange, considering they’d been engaged for several months, but the gravity of the title had never quite sunk in for him. Perhaps in some small way “fiancée” was something he’d never associated with her.
Though it wasn’t as if very much time elapsed since he’d seen her once her door opened (had it even been an hour, he wondered - his cheeks growing hotter at the memory), it felt as if every time was a variation on the first time he’d ever seen her - when he’d thought her the most beautiful creature on which he’d ever laid eyes.
However, she was looking at him and frowning. “So, we’re to be one of those couples?” she asked, with an incredulous raise of her eyebrow.
When he merely raised his eyebrows at her in response, she rolled her eyes, then touched her hand to her own lovely blue jacket before - pausing briefly - to touch his chest. His jacket.
“I suppose so,” he answered, and she looked exasperated for a moment before taking his arm.
He couldn’t help but recall the first time she’d ever done so - back in that brief, splendid month when everything seemed so fine. Back then, when he looked at her, all he could see was “Yes.” He would think it every time he was near her, every time their eyes met - as if the sheer intensity of his love-filled gaze could suggest it to her: Yes. Yes. Yes.
Of course, he’d not thought beyond “Yes.” So, when it ended, he didn’t really lose anything. At least that’s what he spent the next two years telling himself.
They strolled through the hotel lobby - with the busy London streets visible through the glass, and he still felt a small pang of remembrance.
London would always remind him of Lavinia.
Her “Yes” was brief, but barely controlled - as if she wished to shout it from the rooftops. It was the first time he’d wondered at the power behind this seemingly dainty girl.
Then all at once, she was his fiancée. Her title seemed almost ceremonial - for it wasn’t one he used often.
It almost seemed to be a title used for the benefit of others. At the front, it was always “Your fiancée looks quite a handsome girl, sir.” and “You miss your fiancée, do you, sir?” and “That letter from your fiancée, sir?”
He’d only ever thought of her as his fiancée. His betrothed, his intended. Nobody ever asked him “So, when’s the wedding, sir?” because they all knew the unspoken futility in planning even past the next day.
“Fiancee” was a title that slipped from her as easily as she regained it. It was as if it was her state of being, rather than a precursor to any individual event.
When she’d adopted it once more, her “Yes” was an “Of course” - tearful and quiet, and she squeezed his hand.
In spite of himself, he found Mary’s hand - squeezing it lightly, as she turned to him with the warmest, most wonderful expression. He remembered searching it out - even, he thought guiltily, three days before his wedding.
Indeed, during his conversation with cousin Violet, and on every occasion since, he’d wondered at the “Yes” he’d never heard.
Remembrance gradually faded back into the deepest, most heartfelt gratitude, which had finally allowed him that “Yes.” Eight months, six years (eight years) later, it was spoken with a firm softness - at once sounding both extremely loud and incredibly quiet. His knee was buried in the snow in painful pleasure, and her voice sounded as warm as her hands were cold.
This morning her hands (and infinitely more) were warm through her gloves as he and Mary entered the restaurant, and were soon led to their table.
If he felt as if he’d been walking to the table with her for years, it was probably because…he had. Only they were not quite so used to being the only ones there.
Around a much larger table after their engagement, he remembered how…it hadn’t felt all that different. As far as cousin Violet was concerned, he was practically fulfilling an expected duty. Indeed, she had favored him with quite the look when she heard the news - as if to say “You don’t expect me to congratulate you for doing exactly as I said in the first place?”
He stepped in front of the host, to pull out Mary’s chair himself. The host gave him the same eye-rolling look as she did, except Mary’s was accompanied by a small smile.
She took the proffered menu with her left hand, and once again - and he was hit with an entirely different sort of remembrance.
There was a reason he’d never been able to think of Mary as his fiancée. How could she be his fiancée when she’d only ever felt like his future wife?
Coincidentally (or not), he’d not bought her an engagement ring.
In 1914, the words had flown out of his mouth faster than he could contemplate a place of purchase, whereas in 1916 there was a jeweler just down the street in London. But this was 1920…
It had been fairly easy to ask for the day from his employers and take the train to Manchester instead of Ripon. To walk the streets he’d known, where he was now an unknown and find the shop several streets away from where he’d lived.
It had been fairly easy, for there was only one ring he wanted to buy for Mary. Only one ring he ever wanted her to wear. Not one that promised a future, but one that embodied it.
As he gazed at her across the table now, the two loveliest words he could think of now ran in almost a constant loop through his head: My wife.
He’d found himself referring to her as such, perhaps more often than he should, but how could he not - when those precious two words were the publicly accepted method of conveying the three words he could only ever say to her in private...
“…Matthew?”
His head snapped up to meet the eyes of his wife across the table, as well as those less pleasant ones of the waiter.
“I’m so sorry,” she was apologizing to the waiter. “But you may have to ask my husband for his order once more.”
As he gave them both a conciliatory, albeit sheepish smile, he was reminded of something even more necessary than anything he’d been pondering. His fiancée, his wife…of course Mary could never be his anything.
The most important thing in the world was that he would always belong to her.
The End.