Fanfic: Broken
Title: Broken
Author: clunkhall (www.fanfiction.net/u/1473477/OrangeShipper)
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters/Pairing: Matthew/Mary
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 (Injuries, but no detail!)
Summary: "You know, this is not how I expected to return to Downton." 1917. Matthew struggles to come to terms with his recuperation at Downton Abbey. And how will Mary react to his changed circumstances?
A/N: Inspired by the emerging behind-the-scenes photos of series 2 (well, one in particular!). Thanks to silverducks for polishing up and epea_pteroenta for helping me guage Mary's reaction!
Broken
Mary stepped through the imposing doors and onto the spacious, gravelled driveway in front of the house. Since her parent's home had been made into a convalescent hospital nearly a year ago, activity in this previously quiet area had increased significantly. There were always people coming to and fro, patients, visitors and nurses in and out, and, now that summer was approaching, the many recuperating soldiers found it pleasant to pass their time out in the sun. Benches and tables were now scattered just in front of the house, always occupied.
She took a deep breath of the fresh, early evening air, casting her eyes around. If she was honest, she hated being around them. It unnerved her. Their cheerful smiles and laughing chatter belied their missing limbs and their blinded eyes. It made her shudder. How could they be so cheery, so light-hearted, when they had suffered so much? She said cheery - and for the most part, they were - but they were also haunted, and more often than not the harsh cries and screams of remembrance would trouble her sleep.
Her eyes at last fell upon whom she sought. The evening sun caught his golden hair, shorter now at the back than it had been, and she instantly recognised the broad set of his shoulders underneath his khaki uniform. She bit her lip as she walked towards him.
A week ago, he had arrived. He had barely spoken since. No-one had known he was coming; he had not had the chance to write and they were not generally informed of names until the newcomers had arrived. . A fresh 'batch' of wounded but recovering men were being trailed in, by stretcher and wheelchair. She had nearly fainted when she had seen him; she had just been on her way out, had not meant to cross the now familiar, efficient procedure of signing them in. She had cast her eye down the line as she routinely did, hoping and praying that he would not be among them. Her eyes had scanned to the end, a sigh of relief upon her lips, when the realisation hit her and she froze. Hardly breathing, she dragged her eyes back, forcing herself to really look, and was suddenly faced with his cold, blue eyes piercing into hers. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her gasp. His mouth was set into a hard grimace and he quickly looked away, staring darkly into the space in front of him. And then he disappeared, taken into the next room to be processed (she hated the word; it made them seem like cattle).
How she wanted to go to him; but she remained frozen in place for an age. In distress she ran outside, not even thinking to inform her family. Her mind was haunted by the look in his eyes, and she could not wholly say whether or not he was just some phantom in another man's face. As she strode aimlessly through the village, her mind swirled, desperately seeking and grasping at reassurances. His face was just as she remembered; if a little leaner, and sterner, with a thin red gash seared across his cheek. She had been able to gather as much that his limbs were all there still, thank the Lord. He had not been shaking and screaming as some had, and the way his gaze had bored into her had convinced her that he had not lost his sight.
But her Matthew was in a wheelchair. She later learned that his injuries were 'merely' that his lower legs had been horribly crushed somehow, forcing him to remain wheelchair-bound while they recovered. Thankfully at least, they were not beyond recovery at all, unlike so many others. She had also overheard nurses speaking of the gashes latticed across his entire body, the very idea making her heart ache for him. Precisely how it had happened was unknown; he had not spoken of it. Her proud, independent, stubborn Matthew. How he hated it.
Now, as she approached him, trepidation filled her breast. She had not yet spoken to him, she had been too afraid to. However, she had heard that when others had tried, he had only remained despondent, listless, silent, helpless. Cautiously, she came to the other side of the small table by his side, and sat down, watching him carefully. He knew she was there. Eventually, his head turned a fraction, enough to allow his gaze to slide sideways to meet hers. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, silently, before she could find any words.
"I hope you don't mind if I join you for a little while?" Her voice sounded quiet and small in the thick evening air. It was not at all as though they had not exchanged a word for nearly three years.
"It would appear that I have little choice." His eyes flickered down to the wheels of his chair; his body was too weak and sore still for him to be able to move it much under his own power. She understood. She pressed her lips together to prevent them from trembling, the precious sound of his voice affecting her more deeply than she had anticipated after all this time. For a moment she sat just looking at him, taking him in, allowing her eyes to almost reverently trace every feature as her brows furrowed in heartfelt concern.
But he only saw pity there. "Do not look at me like that, Mary," he sighed, his gaze lowering to his currently useless legs. "I don't want or need your pity. I certainly don't deserve it." He paused, lightly clutching at the arm of his wheelchair. A sudden harsh, bitter laugh left his lips, causing Mary's eyes to widen. "Really, I am lucky! Things couldn't be better! I'm in England, I'm - here - and all I have to complain of is a short spell in a wheelchair. Look at them, Mary, and be glad for me." His words cut sharply through the air, simmering bitterness pooling in him at the whole blasted thing. The war, his legs, the chair, this place... Her. Mary had lowered her eyes as he spoke, contemplating his words. He was right - a brief glance around her at recuperating soldiers with far more lasting injuries confirmed the fact.
"Matthew, I do not pity you!" She insisted, shaking her head at him. "I - I am just..." she struggled to find the words. He raised his eyes back to hers, one eyebrow rising gently as he waited. "I suppose I'm just trying to convince myself that you are really here. I... I have been so worried, Matthew." Now was not the time for her stubbornness and silence. He was here, and she was not going to be a fool again.
He blinked at her unspoken admission. That she had thought about him. That she had worried about him. That she had not forgotten him, as he had not forgotten her. The ghost of a smile fell on his lips, some silent understanding passing between them, before his eyes dropped once more.
They fell into an uneasy silence. What could she possibly say to him? How could she understand what he had been through? Though the contemplation of it terrified her, she felt an urgent desire to know. She was glad that his uniform and the bandages around his legs hid his torn and bloodied flesh from her eyes, but she was so very aware of it all.
"What happened?" She eventually whispered. She held her breath as she saw him stiffen, his fingers gripping slightly tighter on the arm. He remained unmoving, staring ahead, only a twitch in his nostrils as he drew a deep, shuddering breath. In his mind he had relived the moment over and over, the blinding flash, the searing pain, the dull agony as he had waited. A brief simmer of frustration bubbled through him; what business of hers was it, of anyone's! Yet, somehow, he knew that she needed to understand, and a strange calm spread through him as he realised that he wanted her to.
"Shell," he eventually shrugged, his voice low and quiet. His eyes remained fixed on the ground slightly in front of him. Mary held her breath, understanding the significance of his revelation. "I was... writing to Mother in the dugout. The shelling had been going on for days; I suppose it was only a matter of time really." His voice grew quieter as he continued, trembling a little. His eyes narrowed. "I can't really remember. It all came crashing in at once." He took a shaking breath, twitching visibly as he flinched at the memory. Mary watched him entranced, unshed tears filling her eyes. "I imagine it hit just outside, I... really don't know, only that if it had been much closer I would be dead for sure. I can't remember. Just... the walls and the door and the ceiling shattering into pieces and flying against me, it was deafening, blinding -" his breath had quickened to shallow gasps and Mary grasped his arm lightly, her eyes tracing the obviously recent gash on his cheek, wondering about the multitude beneath his uniform. "Then," he closed his eyes and expelled a gentle sigh, "there was only black, and quiet, and pain, for so long." He swallowed, his eyes slowly blinking open. "I... think that half the roof had landed on my legs. Bloody hurt. And I was bloody lucky they found me so quickly."
Shaking slightly, he turned his face to Mary, causing her to gasp at the pained look in his eyes. She saw in them complete honesty, and complete trust. All at once her heart swelled unbearably with the love that she had not allowed herself to forget, and it pounded through her veins. It suddenly hit her with enormous force just how easily she could have lost him, how lucky she was that he was sitting beside her now, able to tell her of it.
"Oh Matthew," she breathed. His lips twitched, not quite able to smile, but recognising now that it was not pity in her eyes but sorrow. He felt an odd calm, an odd relief at having told her. Feelings stirred in him that he had not allowed himself to feel in a long time, and he knew without doubt that there was not another soul here he would have spoken to of it.
"Well," he said quietly. "There you have it. And here I am."
"Might... Might I tell your mother?" Mary asked tentatively. "She has been terribly worried about you. We all have." She knew that Cousin Isobel had sat with Matthew for many hours in the past week, troubled by his silence. She felt an almost perverse pleasure in the flutter of her heart at the fact that it was she whom he had chosen to open up to.
"If you like," he muttered.
"Thank you. It will give her peace, I think. It's... oh Matthew, this will sound dreadful I know, but it's so hard simply not knowing." His eyes flashed to her sharply. "No, I know what you think - I know that it is not hard for us here, it is nothing compared to what you have done, but... I think that the unknown can be a lot more troubling than the simple known truth."
He nodded slowly, returning his gaze to the ground. He could understand that, he supposed. The overriding, terrible fear that gripped his heart before combat seemed to dissipate once he was in the thick of it; there was no time to think or be afraid. He simply dealt with it. Though the cold reality of battle was more dreadful than anything he knew, it was still somehow easier to deal with than the seizing fear beforehand. And the silence before the shelling; the silence when you knew it was coming, was unbearable. He supposed it was like that, in some perverse way.
"Yes," he said simply.
Mary's lips twitched slightly. He seemed so despondent, so resigned, and it made her heart ache. She felt almost a little guilty at her pleasure that he was back, there, beside her. It all seemed so long ago, that they had parted, with such regret and resentment between them. And now he was back… She had imagined him being back so many times. Had imagined that it was all forgotten. But it was not. And he still hung, dreadfully, between them. Pamuk - the very thought of him made her shudder now. Should she tell him still, now? She almost wished he were some wonderful phantom, not really here, not forcing her to think of it again. Could she tell him? She sighed, shaking her head slightly. He was here… That was all that seemed important, for this precious moment. He was alive, and he was here. All else could wait for another time.
Tentatively, she slid her hand down his arm and touched his hand where it lay on the arm of his wheelchair. Both stared at the contact, transfixed, while her fingertips lightly traced all over his hand and fingers. Her almost touch made him shiver. Mary slowly spread out her hand, until her palm was lying flat against the back of his hand, then curled her fingers round to gently clasp it. Matthew's eyes drifted shut, his breathing suddenly shallow as he savoured the sensation. His hand was smoother than she had expected; three years of war should have made it callous and rough; and it was, scabbed and scarred, but not so much that she could not feel the delicate softness of his palm under her fingers. She blinked, gazing at it. To her, it suddenly seemed the most wondrous thing. What had it done? Had this hand, his hand, been the cause of anyone's death? She supposed it must have been. It would be stupidly naive to imagine that he had not killed; but the thought of her dear, sweet Matthew doing such a thing made her tremble. That he should even be in a situation where it was necessary, where the action was forced upon him, was unbearable to think of. Unconsciously, her thumb rubbed across his fingers and her heart went out to him. She gave a gentle gasp as she felt a light squeeze from him.
Her eyes flicked up to his face. He was staring, out across the grounds, off into the distance, all the way to France. She could see his face twitch and flex as he lightly clenched his jaw. She wondered if he could sense, or whether he cared, that she was quite openly staring at him, but she supposed that if he minded he would let her know. His fingers still lightly clasped her hand, tightening occasionally as something passed through his mind. For the moment, she was utterly content to simply sit with him like this, treasuring his presence and carving in her mind every inch of his handsome face. He would talk when he was ready.
Eventually, he was.
"You know, this is not how I expected to return to Downton." His words had a resentful, bitter edge. The thought had clearly been playing on his mind for some time.
"Oh?" It was hardly how Mary had expected him to either; but then, every possible scenario had played through her mind so many times in the past that she hardly knew which of them she actually expected.
"No. Well. What I had expected, I don't know, but I suppose that I would have desired to return with at least a shred of dignity and self-respect still. Not like this." He looked disgustedly down at himself and his wheelchair.
"Matthew! You say that as if you had none." Mary found herself disturbed and worried by his opinion of himself. His eyes slid sideways to hers, burning coldly.
"Look at me, Mary. What dignity do I have?"
"You have dignity in abundance, Matthew! You - of course you do!" Her eyebrows rose as she spoke, unable to believe his attitude. How could he consider himself to have none!
"Mary." Unconsciously he clutched her hand a little more tightly. "When you are unable to move your own body without assistance or pain, when you are helpless to do anything for yourself - and shall be so for months, possibly - then you tell me whether you feel you have any dignity left."
"Matthew -" She was interrupted by him, his voice ringing harshly in bitterness and resentment.
"It is not even as though I suffered injury in some noble, heroic fashion whilst doing my duty! It was a blasted accident!" He didn't even know why this bothered him so much. He certainly never would consider himself a hero, or even particularly noble. It just seemed that it would somehow give his injury more worth, rather than it having been a pointless accident. "And the worst of it is," he continued, growing increasingly agitated, "that now I feel guilty. Guilty! That I'm sitting here, in safety and sunshine, feeling sorry for myself while all the rest are still out there doing what I should be doing." His lip curled into a sneer of disgust at himself.
"Matthew!" Her heart broke for him, but he was being ridiculous! "How can you say that! I - I know you must feel helpless here, but - for goodness sake, listen to yourself!" Matthew turned and glared uncomfortably at her hard words. "Damn you for being so stupidly noble - you have fought for three years, Matthew, you have given everything to it, I am sure. You've been injured -" her voice shook slightly, "and yes, it was an accident - well I care not how it happened, it makes not a jot of difference! The fact is that it happened, you are here - you cannot change that. Let others take up the fight for a while. Appreciate the fact that you are alive, that you have been granted a respite - that you are here. You must suffer for a time, yes, but thank God that you have your legs still, and thank God that you have your life still." She unconsciously gripped his hand ever tighter as she became more worked up, panting slightly in shock at herself after her outburst.
Matthew frowned, blinking slowly, at the ground. He trembled slightly all over, stunned by her harsh speech.
A twinge of regret flashed through Mary at how unthinking she had been. "Matthew, I -"
"No." His voice rang with clear resolve. "No, Mary, you're right." He met her eyes, his lips pressing into a thin smile. "Thank you, I… I think I needed to hear that." Of course she was right. Now he felt a little less guilty and a little more foolish. "You must think me so selfish and stupid, to be feeling sorry for myself when I've really so little to complain about compared to others… Thank you, Mary."
Mary breathed a soft sigh of relief, smiling gently as, for the first time, his eyes sparkled a little. He did not resent her words; he even seemed to be grateful for them! Her heart burst with fondness, unable still to believe that he was actually sitting in front of her, his hand in hers.
They sank once more into a strange, peaceful silence, having reached some unspoken truce and understanding. The feeling of her hand in his gave Matthew greater comfort than he had felt in three years. The whole situation seemed odd and surreal. His eyes wandered down to his battered legs, his resentment at his situation a little duller than before. Just a little. He wondered what Mary thought of it. Could she love him like this? No - he sighed, shaking his head slightly. He could not think of that now.
His gaze drifted back out into the distance. The silence here was unsettling, and he felt restless, a part of him longing to be back there, doing his duty. Was he a fool to think so? Probably. Then it occurred to him that his restlessness was more due to the fact that he had been sitting in this damnable wheelchair for endless hours. He shifted, wriggling a little, grimacing as the movement rubbed against his scarred body. Glancing sideways, he saw that she was watching him, a concerned frown upon her face. He tried to raise a gentle smile of reassurance, not quite sure whether he had succeeded or not. Taking a deep breath, he settled himself once more, determined to enjoy this unexpected contentment a little while longer, the soft feel of her hand in his. This time, it was not imagined, away in his bunk across the sea, in the dark, under the pounding of shells. She was real, and she was here, and she was holding his hand.
For the first time in over a week, he found the corner of his lips twitching into a small smile.
Author: clunkhall (www.fanfiction.net/u/1473477/OrangeShipper)
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters/Pairing: Matthew/Mary
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 (Injuries, but no detail!)
Summary: "You know, this is not how I expected to return to Downton." 1917. Matthew struggles to come to terms with his recuperation at Downton Abbey. And how will Mary react to his changed circumstances?
A/N: Inspired by the emerging behind-the-scenes photos of series 2 (well, one in particular!). Thanks to silverducks for polishing up and epea_pteroenta for helping me guage Mary's reaction!
Broken
Mary stepped through the imposing doors and onto the spacious, gravelled driveway in front of the house. Since her parent's home had been made into a convalescent hospital nearly a year ago, activity in this previously quiet area had increased significantly. There were always people coming to and fro, patients, visitors and nurses in and out, and, now that summer was approaching, the many recuperating soldiers found it pleasant to pass their time out in the sun. Benches and tables were now scattered just in front of the house, always occupied.
She took a deep breath of the fresh, early evening air, casting her eyes around. If she was honest, she hated being around them. It unnerved her. Their cheerful smiles and laughing chatter belied their missing limbs and their blinded eyes. It made her shudder. How could they be so cheery, so light-hearted, when they had suffered so much? She said cheery - and for the most part, they were - but they were also haunted, and more often than not the harsh cries and screams of remembrance would trouble her sleep.
Her eyes at last fell upon whom she sought. The evening sun caught his golden hair, shorter now at the back than it had been, and she instantly recognised the broad set of his shoulders underneath his khaki uniform. She bit her lip as she walked towards him.
A week ago, he had arrived. He had barely spoken since. No-one had known he was coming; he had not had the chance to write and they were not generally informed of names until the newcomers had arrived. . A fresh 'batch' of wounded but recovering men were being trailed in, by stretcher and wheelchair. She had nearly fainted when she had seen him; she had just been on her way out, had not meant to cross the now familiar, efficient procedure of signing them in. She had cast her eye down the line as she routinely did, hoping and praying that he would not be among them. Her eyes had scanned to the end, a sigh of relief upon her lips, when the realisation hit her and she froze. Hardly breathing, she dragged her eyes back, forcing herself to really look, and was suddenly faced with his cold, blue eyes piercing into hers. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover her gasp. His mouth was set into a hard grimace and he quickly looked away, staring darkly into the space in front of him. And then he disappeared, taken into the next room to be processed (she hated the word; it made them seem like cattle).
How she wanted to go to him; but she remained frozen in place for an age. In distress she ran outside, not even thinking to inform her family. Her mind was haunted by the look in his eyes, and she could not wholly say whether or not he was just some phantom in another man's face. As she strode aimlessly through the village, her mind swirled, desperately seeking and grasping at reassurances. His face was just as she remembered; if a little leaner, and sterner, with a thin red gash seared across his cheek. She had been able to gather as much that his limbs were all there still, thank the Lord. He had not been shaking and screaming as some had, and the way his gaze had bored into her had convinced her that he had not lost his sight.
But her Matthew was in a wheelchair. She later learned that his injuries were 'merely' that his lower legs had been horribly crushed somehow, forcing him to remain wheelchair-bound while they recovered. Thankfully at least, they were not beyond recovery at all, unlike so many others. She had also overheard nurses speaking of the gashes latticed across his entire body, the very idea making her heart ache for him. Precisely how it had happened was unknown; he had not spoken of it. Her proud, independent, stubborn Matthew. How he hated it.
Now, as she approached him, trepidation filled her breast. She had not yet spoken to him, she had been too afraid to. However, she had heard that when others had tried, he had only remained despondent, listless, silent, helpless. Cautiously, she came to the other side of the small table by his side, and sat down, watching him carefully. He knew she was there. Eventually, his head turned a fraction, enough to allow his gaze to slide sideways to meet hers. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, silently, before she could find any words.
"I hope you don't mind if I join you for a little while?" Her voice sounded quiet and small in the thick evening air. It was not at all as though they had not exchanged a word for nearly three years.
"It would appear that I have little choice." His eyes flickered down to the wheels of his chair; his body was too weak and sore still for him to be able to move it much under his own power. She understood. She pressed her lips together to prevent them from trembling, the precious sound of his voice affecting her more deeply than she had anticipated after all this time. For a moment she sat just looking at him, taking him in, allowing her eyes to almost reverently trace every feature as her brows furrowed in heartfelt concern.
But he only saw pity there. "Do not look at me like that, Mary," he sighed, his gaze lowering to his currently useless legs. "I don't want or need your pity. I certainly don't deserve it." He paused, lightly clutching at the arm of his wheelchair. A sudden harsh, bitter laugh left his lips, causing Mary's eyes to widen. "Really, I am lucky! Things couldn't be better! I'm in England, I'm - here - and all I have to complain of is a short spell in a wheelchair. Look at them, Mary, and be glad for me." His words cut sharply through the air, simmering bitterness pooling in him at the whole blasted thing. The war, his legs, the chair, this place... Her. Mary had lowered her eyes as he spoke, contemplating his words. He was right - a brief glance around her at recuperating soldiers with far more lasting injuries confirmed the fact.
"Matthew, I do not pity you!" She insisted, shaking her head at him. "I - I am just..." she struggled to find the words. He raised his eyes back to hers, one eyebrow rising gently as he waited. "I suppose I'm just trying to convince myself that you are really here. I... I have been so worried, Matthew." Now was not the time for her stubbornness and silence. He was here, and she was not going to be a fool again.
He blinked at her unspoken admission. That she had thought about him. That she had worried about him. That she had not forgotten him, as he had not forgotten her. The ghost of a smile fell on his lips, some silent understanding passing between them, before his eyes dropped once more.
They fell into an uneasy silence. What could she possibly say to him? How could she understand what he had been through? Though the contemplation of it terrified her, she felt an urgent desire to know. She was glad that his uniform and the bandages around his legs hid his torn and bloodied flesh from her eyes, but she was so very aware of it all.
"What happened?" She eventually whispered. She held her breath as she saw him stiffen, his fingers gripping slightly tighter on the arm. He remained unmoving, staring ahead, only a twitch in his nostrils as he drew a deep, shuddering breath. In his mind he had relived the moment over and over, the blinding flash, the searing pain, the dull agony as he had waited. A brief simmer of frustration bubbled through him; what business of hers was it, of anyone's! Yet, somehow, he knew that she needed to understand, and a strange calm spread through him as he realised that he wanted her to.
"Shell," he eventually shrugged, his voice low and quiet. His eyes remained fixed on the ground slightly in front of him. Mary held her breath, understanding the significance of his revelation. "I was... writing to Mother in the dugout. The shelling had been going on for days; I suppose it was only a matter of time really." His voice grew quieter as he continued, trembling a little. His eyes narrowed. "I can't really remember. It all came crashing in at once." He took a shaking breath, twitching visibly as he flinched at the memory. Mary watched him entranced, unshed tears filling her eyes. "I imagine it hit just outside, I... really don't know, only that if it had been much closer I would be dead for sure. I can't remember. Just... the walls and the door and the ceiling shattering into pieces and flying against me, it was deafening, blinding -" his breath had quickened to shallow gasps and Mary grasped his arm lightly, her eyes tracing the obviously recent gash on his cheek, wondering about the multitude beneath his uniform. "Then," he closed his eyes and expelled a gentle sigh, "there was only black, and quiet, and pain, for so long." He swallowed, his eyes slowly blinking open. "I... think that half the roof had landed on my legs. Bloody hurt. And I was bloody lucky they found me so quickly."
Shaking slightly, he turned his face to Mary, causing her to gasp at the pained look in his eyes. She saw in them complete honesty, and complete trust. All at once her heart swelled unbearably with the love that she had not allowed herself to forget, and it pounded through her veins. It suddenly hit her with enormous force just how easily she could have lost him, how lucky she was that he was sitting beside her now, able to tell her of it.
"Oh Matthew," she breathed. His lips twitched, not quite able to smile, but recognising now that it was not pity in her eyes but sorrow. He felt an odd calm, an odd relief at having told her. Feelings stirred in him that he had not allowed himself to feel in a long time, and he knew without doubt that there was not another soul here he would have spoken to of it.
"Well," he said quietly. "There you have it. And here I am."
"Might... Might I tell your mother?" Mary asked tentatively. "She has been terribly worried about you. We all have." She knew that Cousin Isobel had sat with Matthew for many hours in the past week, troubled by his silence. She felt an almost perverse pleasure in the flutter of her heart at the fact that it was she whom he had chosen to open up to.
"If you like," he muttered.
"Thank you. It will give her peace, I think. It's... oh Matthew, this will sound dreadful I know, but it's so hard simply not knowing." His eyes flashed to her sharply. "No, I know what you think - I know that it is not hard for us here, it is nothing compared to what you have done, but... I think that the unknown can be a lot more troubling than the simple known truth."
He nodded slowly, returning his gaze to the ground. He could understand that, he supposed. The overriding, terrible fear that gripped his heart before combat seemed to dissipate once he was in the thick of it; there was no time to think or be afraid. He simply dealt with it. Though the cold reality of battle was more dreadful than anything he knew, it was still somehow easier to deal with than the seizing fear beforehand. And the silence before the shelling; the silence when you knew it was coming, was unbearable. He supposed it was like that, in some perverse way.
"Yes," he said simply.
Mary's lips twitched slightly. He seemed so despondent, so resigned, and it made her heart ache. She felt almost a little guilty at her pleasure that he was back, there, beside her. It all seemed so long ago, that they had parted, with such regret and resentment between them. And now he was back… She had imagined him being back so many times. Had imagined that it was all forgotten. But it was not. And he still hung, dreadfully, between them. Pamuk - the very thought of him made her shudder now. Should she tell him still, now? She almost wished he were some wonderful phantom, not really here, not forcing her to think of it again. Could she tell him? She sighed, shaking her head slightly. He was here… That was all that seemed important, for this precious moment. He was alive, and he was here. All else could wait for another time.
Tentatively, she slid her hand down his arm and touched his hand where it lay on the arm of his wheelchair. Both stared at the contact, transfixed, while her fingertips lightly traced all over his hand and fingers. Her almost touch made him shiver. Mary slowly spread out her hand, until her palm was lying flat against the back of his hand, then curled her fingers round to gently clasp it. Matthew's eyes drifted shut, his breathing suddenly shallow as he savoured the sensation. His hand was smoother than she had expected; three years of war should have made it callous and rough; and it was, scabbed and scarred, but not so much that she could not feel the delicate softness of his palm under her fingers. She blinked, gazing at it. To her, it suddenly seemed the most wondrous thing. What had it done? Had this hand, his hand, been the cause of anyone's death? She supposed it must have been. It would be stupidly naive to imagine that he had not killed; but the thought of her dear, sweet Matthew doing such a thing made her tremble. That he should even be in a situation where it was necessary, where the action was forced upon him, was unbearable to think of. Unconsciously, her thumb rubbed across his fingers and her heart went out to him. She gave a gentle gasp as she felt a light squeeze from him.
Her eyes flicked up to his face. He was staring, out across the grounds, off into the distance, all the way to France. She could see his face twitch and flex as he lightly clenched his jaw. She wondered if he could sense, or whether he cared, that she was quite openly staring at him, but she supposed that if he minded he would let her know. His fingers still lightly clasped her hand, tightening occasionally as something passed through his mind. For the moment, she was utterly content to simply sit with him like this, treasuring his presence and carving in her mind every inch of his handsome face. He would talk when he was ready.
Eventually, he was.
"You know, this is not how I expected to return to Downton." His words had a resentful, bitter edge. The thought had clearly been playing on his mind for some time.
"Oh?" It was hardly how Mary had expected him to either; but then, every possible scenario had played through her mind so many times in the past that she hardly knew which of them she actually expected.
"No. Well. What I had expected, I don't know, but I suppose that I would have desired to return with at least a shred of dignity and self-respect still. Not like this." He looked disgustedly down at himself and his wheelchair.
"Matthew! You say that as if you had none." Mary found herself disturbed and worried by his opinion of himself. His eyes slid sideways to hers, burning coldly.
"Look at me, Mary. What dignity do I have?"
"You have dignity in abundance, Matthew! You - of course you do!" Her eyebrows rose as she spoke, unable to believe his attitude. How could he consider himself to have none!
"Mary." Unconsciously he clutched her hand a little more tightly. "When you are unable to move your own body without assistance or pain, when you are helpless to do anything for yourself - and shall be so for months, possibly - then you tell me whether you feel you have any dignity left."
"Matthew -" She was interrupted by him, his voice ringing harshly in bitterness and resentment.
"It is not even as though I suffered injury in some noble, heroic fashion whilst doing my duty! It was a blasted accident!" He didn't even know why this bothered him so much. He certainly never would consider himself a hero, or even particularly noble. It just seemed that it would somehow give his injury more worth, rather than it having been a pointless accident. "And the worst of it is," he continued, growing increasingly agitated, "that now I feel guilty. Guilty! That I'm sitting here, in safety and sunshine, feeling sorry for myself while all the rest are still out there doing what I should be doing." His lip curled into a sneer of disgust at himself.
"Matthew!" Her heart broke for him, but he was being ridiculous! "How can you say that! I - I know you must feel helpless here, but - for goodness sake, listen to yourself!" Matthew turned and glared uncomfortably at her hard words. "Damn you for being so stupidly noble - you have fought for three years, Matthew, you have given everything to it, I am sure. You've been injured -" her voice shook slightly, "and yes, it was an accident - well I care not how it happened, it makes not a jot of difference! The fact is that it happened, you are here - you cannot change that. Let others take up the fight for a while. Appreciate the fact that you are alive, that you have been granted a respite - that you are here. You must suffer for a time, yes, but thank God that you have your legs still, and thank God that you have your life still." She unconsciously gripped his hand ever tighter as she became more worked up, panting slightly in shock at herself after her outburst.
Matthew frowned, blinking slowly, at the ground. He trembled slightly all over, stunned by her harsh speech.
A twinge of regret flashed through Mary at how unthinking she had been. "Matthew, I -"
"No." His voice rang with clear resolve. "No, Mary, you're right." He met her eyes, his lips pressing into a thin smile. "Thank you, I… I think I needed to hear that." Of course she was right. Now he felt a little less guilty and a little more foolish. "You must think me so selfish and stupid, to be feeling sorry for myself when I've really so little to complain about compared to others… Thank you, Mary."
Mary breathed a soft sigh of relief, smiling gently as, for the first time, his eyes sparkled a little. He did not resent her words; he even seemed to be grateful for them! Her heart burst with fondness, unable still to believe that he was actually sitting in front of her, his hand in hers.
They sank once more into a strange, peaceful silence, having reached some unspoken truce and understanding. The feeling of her hand in his gave Matthew greater comfort than he had felt in three years. The whole situation seemed odd and surreal. His eyes wandered down to his battered legs, his resentment at his situation a little duller than before. Just a little. He wondered what Mary thought of it. Could she love him like this? No - he sighed, shaking his head slightly. He could not think of that now.
His gaze drifted back out into the distance. The silence here was unsettling, and he felt restless, a part of him longing to be back there, doing his duty. Was he a fool to think so? Probably. Then it occurred to him that his restlessness was more due to the fact that he had been sitting in this damnable wheelchair for endless hours. He shifted, wriggling a little, grimacing as the movement rubbed against his scarred body. Glancing sideways, he saw that she was watching him, a concerned frown upon her face. He tried to raise a gentle smile of reassurance, not quite sure whether he had succeeded or not. Taking a deep breath, he settled himself once more, determined to enjoy this unexpected contentment a little while longer, the soft feel of her hand in his. This time, it was not imagined, away in his bunk across the sea, in the dark, under the pounding of shells. She was real, and she was here, and she was holding his hand.
For the first time in over a week, he found the corner of his lips twitching into a small smile.