[MATTHEW CRAWLEY] - for undiminished

[mare_liberum]

Matthew didn't remember the accident. In fact, when he'd awoken in the strange, sterile room at the village hospital, he didn't remember much of anything, except for the sight of his mother, who'd been worrying herself at his bedside. She'd nearly broken down into hysterics at the sight of his fluttering eyelids, groggy with weeks of lack of use.

Brows furrowed, he'd had some difficulty keeping up with her barrage of words and questions, able to only understand one thing: "Mary and George will be so happy to see you."

The name "Mary" he'd recognized, remembering the cold yet alluring woman he'd met after arriving at Downton. He remembers her riding gear, the way the wind had been knocked clear out of his lungs at the first sight of her (she was, obviously, not what he had been expecting). He remembers their first dinner together, how she'd brought up the story of Andromeda, very clearly likening him to the sea monster of the story. Given all of that ..

Why on earth would she be delighted to see him? She'd made her position - and disinterest - overtly clear, as far as he could recall. The mention of George, however, strikes no memory or familiarity. Or, it almost does - like an itch one's unable to reach - but it doesn't seem to blossom into anything further.

His lips struggle to find both the breath and strength to create sound after having been stagnant for so long, and before he's able to muster up any sort of word, his mother's rushing to telephone Lord and Lady Grantham, as well as Lady Mary, to alert them of Matthew's status. With a grunt of frustration, he lets his head flop back onto the pillow, staring at the white, egg-shell ceiling overhead with resignation.

Comments

[undiminished]

They had told her to prepare herself.

Mary had nodded jerkily, fingers clamped white-knuckled over the back of the library sofa, and politely, if somewhat faintly, excused herself from the room. She's rather proud that she made it all the way up to the upstairs hall before her knees had given way, and thank God it had been Anna there to scoop her up and help her finish the distance to their bedroom. Or her bedroom now, she supposed.

Oh, God.

Of course, she'd had her little cry out and then reached shaking fingers for the bell pull. Matthew was in surgery, and she couldn't— They'd told her to wait at the house, there was nothing she could do. Well, damned to them, she wasn't going to sit here while her husband was fighting for his life again.

Eventually they'd thrown her out of the hospital. Well, officially, she was asked with utmost but firm politeness by Isobel and Dr. Clarkson to please get some rest, and when Mary had argued she could easily camp out on one of the free beds, they'd used George against her. He'd be frightened and confused and needing his mother, they'd said. She hadn't been able to deny the sense in it, but the pill had still been bitter, leaving Matthew pale and bruised in that slim, sterile bunk.

Walking (or rather, being pushed) out of the door, she'd thought of Sybil, of how badly they needed her now, and had nearly begun to cry.

And now... Well, she'd steeled herself so firmly for the worst that it had taken a long moment to even understand what she was being told — That Matthew was out of the worst danger, that he was awake. She'd been holding George in her lap and had unknowingly squeezed him hard enough that he'd cried out.

The driver had taken her straight away, George left in her mother's capable hands, and not for the first time Mary wishes she had something approaching the passion of her little sister. Surely it would feel good to go dashing through the hospital door and collapse at Matthew's bedside.

But no, it's nothing more than a brisk walk and a proper chair for her, although her fingers are finely trembling as they reach to clasp against his hand.

"God, but you gave me a scare," she asserts in a rush, smiling at last with relief.

/flops down on the ground/ your mary's so good already god

[thecat_thatwalks]

Matthew must've fallen in and out of consciousness, or perhaps it was sleep, because before he could manage to string two words together, he'd felt the trembling touch of a woman's hand on his, rousing him from whatever hallucinations he might've been experiencing.

The sight of her face is all together familiar; she hasn't changed all that much, of course. She might be perhaps a bit older than he remembers, though he can't, for the life of him, imagine why she would appear to be so. Certainly it hasn't been that long since he'd last seen her? Perhaps whatever's landed him in the village hospital has affected his eye sight. He tries to remind himself to inquire about it with Dr. Clarkson the next time he comes to see him.

He catches the eye of his mother who's loitering by the doorway before she offers a tense yet still blissfully and tearily relieved smile and disappears into the hallway. He imagines that she's listening, given her penchant for needing to know the goings on of just about everything, perhaps to get a leg up on Cousin Violet.

"Mr. Pamuk will be missing your company," he manages to croak through atrophied vocal chords, eyes glancing down to where she's gripping his hand so tightly it's as though she's attempting to remind him of what it means to be strong. Curious. "You were inseparable at last night's dinner, as far as I can recall."

<33333, also omfg

[undiminished]

It's a joke. It's so obviously a joke that Mary has to laugh, although the sound is thin and uncertain. Matthew being a bit cheeky isn't anything new, particularly between the two of them, but this toes over the line. She knows he'd not purposely mock her, but her posture instinctively stiffens.

"I see they must have given you something very good for the pain, to say something so off-color," she replies, straining to keep her voice light despite how clipped the words ultimately sound, signalling that they've had their laugh and will be moving on presently.

"Are you in much pain?" she asks, her expression softening as she reaches to brush a lock of hair from his forehead.

/kanye shrug/

[thecat_thatwalks]

Matthew's brows knit closer together at the sound of her laugh, resonating against the walls and reverberating in his ears with the clarity of a bell. Yet he hears the underlying the pain, the things she so desperately wishes to hide with such an outward display of frivolity and casualty.

Perhaps she'd rather not have her obvious behaviors so publicly aired, he thinks. But it's just the two of them here in this room. Perhaps it's that she doesn't think them good enough friends for such comments, even if his intentions aren't misguided.

"Why would it be off-color?" he cannot help but ask, unable to wrap his mind around it. There's nothing insinuated in his tone; it's as pure a question as one could ask. He simply doesn't understand why she'd say such a thing. "Evelyn Napier and I shared a mutual moment of disappointment when you answered to Mr. Pamuk so quickly, right in the middle of Evelyn's riding story." Then his eyes widen, as though he's suddenly solved the puzzle, followed by a look of sheepishness. "Is it because of what happened to him? What a frightful business, having a man perish within your home. Forgive me for being so insensitive to what you all must be going through."

[undiminished]

For what feels like an eternity, Mary can only stare back at him, her expression frozen on the cusp between fondness and uncertainty. He isn't joking. She'd know; he's a truly atrocious liar.

"You're serious," she all but blurts, her grip on his hand loosening. "That frightful business was years ago, Matthew, although I promise you there's been plenty of frightful things since." Agitated, she tosses a glance toward the door, but they've truly been left alone. Why hadn't anyone told her to expect this?

"We're married now," she slowly continues, watching him carefully as she speaks. "We have a son, George. Please tell me you remember this."

[thecat_thatwalks]

Now it is Matthew's turn to stare at her, mouth agape, eyes wildly searching hers and her face for any sort of clue, any sort of inkling as to the truth behind her words. Certainly she wouldn't says such things with the sole purpose of getting a rise out of him? Not in the state that he's in? Then again, this is Lady Mary Crawley with whom he is dealing; who knows the limits of what she might do or say to get something that she wants.

"Of course I'm serious," he finally mutters, incredulous statement accented with a breath of a scoff. His lips come together and part many times over, like the rise and fall of the sea to the shoreline. He cannot seem to get his thoughts in enough order to speak them aloud, so when he does finally manage to try, they are a bit jumbled.

"We can't have been married, not when the last thing - Mary, it was only yesterday that you'd been enraptured by the late Mr. Pamuk. I'd gone with Edith to see the local churches at her request while you'd gone riding with Evelyn and Mr. Pamuk, and the next thing - Dead, he was found dead in his room." His mind is reeling, skull buzzing, teeth tingling. He can't understand what's going on. There's no hint of mischief in her tone or her expression; she seems just as serious as he feels when she claims to now be his wife. "Please understand how serious I'm being when I tell you that truly, that is the last that I remember. You had no interest in marrying me."

[undiminished]

"Yes, thank you, I remember the incident with Mr Pamuk quite clearly," Mary tersely replies, giving in to the urge to draw her hands back into her lap. Her heart's thumping wildly in her chest, but she staunchly ignores it, clinging instead to her irritation. It's a steadying sort of emotion, in her experience.

She takes a breath, purses her lips. "And I can see that you're serious. You must have hit your head, or perhaps the shock of the accident has... I don't know, turned you around. But I promise you that this is no joke. We went a bit of a round-about way to get there, but we're married, we've been married, and I could march half the village in here to testify to having witnessed it. We have a—" Her voice breaks despite herself, and she slants her gaze away. "We have a son. He's back at the house wondering where his Papa is."

She pulls in another wavering breath. "My God, Matthew," she begins again, plaintive and affronted as she looks back to him. "My nerves have been in tatters. I thought you were dying. They told me you'd not survive. Can you not look at me and tell that I'm not lying to you? Why would I be here? Do you think I clutch the hand of every invalid I happen across?"

5 million yrs later .. with a broken finger .. sorry for typos

[thecat_thatwalks]

Matthew watches her hands retreat, suddenly aware of the gaping absence of warmth they've left in their wake. It takes just about all of his strength to keep himself from lurching forward to take hold of them again, enfold their trembling selves in his own, and tuck them close to his heart.

His eyes slowly lift towards her face, subconsciously tightening his lips in mirror to her actions. She sounds so genuine through it all - so surefooted in her recounting of this tale. What reason would she have to fabricate it all? What purpose would such a cruel thing serve? Of course, he can clearly remember the things whispered by Edith about her elder sister's cold heart, but, even in his hazy state, Matthew can't quite lose himself to those whispers.

Something somewhere itches that she's telling the truth, even if he can't verify any of it with his own account.

"No, of course not," he retorts, blinking under furrowed brows as he looks to his covered legs and feet in the hospital bed. A hand reaches up to rub at his forehead. "But you've got to forgive me, if I seem less than myself. I'm afraid .. Mary, I'm afraid I can't remember much at all, aside from what I've already revealed to you. Honestly, it is the last that I can recall."