This was written in a quick burst of inspiration, which are wonderful to have but make updates sporadic. So sorry I haven't updated this in a while (I feel like all my author's notes say that) but here you go. Enjoy!

Clouds had settled over Yorkshire, a dark ending to August. Undeterred by the cold weather, Matthew had gone on a long, solitary walk. It was confining, Crawley House, with his mother perpetually trying to convince him to do something, and Molesley hovering over him and asking if he wanted tea every five minutes. Finally, tired of reading the same books over and over again, he grabbed his coat and hat and went out.

Nobody knew where he was, and it was almost freeing.

His pace was brisk, the freedom from previous inhibitions encouraging. He was independent now, forced to rely on none. Maybe he didn't deserve that, but he was very grateful that his injuries of a year ago were now just a terrible memory.

The village was full of life, despite the oddly cold day. It seemed cheerful enough, but there was still a lingering sadness, a sense of loss. It was everywhere in the world, as nearly every person was either touched by war or knew someone who was.

He knew firsthand.

"Morning Mr. Crawley," a woman from the village called to him. He couldn't remember her name at all. How long had it been since he had talked with the villagers? Certainly the last time was sometime during or even before the war. He had isolated himself afterwards, not believing hew as worthy of conversing with. He wasn't to take up their time, that would be quite unfair.

He managed a tight smile and nod, tipping his hat slightly in acknowledgement. He didn't want to stay and talk. If he could not bring himself to really care about his own problems anymore, how could he be anything but apathetic to those he didn't even know?

It was easiest just to try and forget, to numb himself against emotion and guilt. He wasn't entirely successful, the pressing guilt over Lavinia's death an unpleasant weight that he still wasn't strong enough to lift. But he tried to live in a quiet, repetitive way, going to work and not doing much else. He had ignored far more invitations for dinner at the big house than was considered socially acceptable, but Robert said he understood. He said so, but he probably didn't truly understand.

He had overheard a conversation between his mother and Robert about him and how much he struggled with Lavinia's death, and his mother had compared it to the difficulty he had with his father's death. This had frustrated him immensely, as they were in no way the same. His father's death had been a shock, something that his ten-year-old self had not anticipated. The only person close to him who had died during his short lifetime was his grandmother, and she had obviously been ready to die, her old age giving her more pain than she could handle with joy. Reginald Crawley, on the other hand, had been fairly young and healthy, and his sudden death of a heart ailment had been hard to swallow.

But Lavinia was very different. For one, the little boy who saw his father unconscious on the floor was a very different person that the man who sat beside his fiancee's bedside. Matthew had seen so much in his lifetime, so much death, that it wasn't necessarily shocking. It shouldn't have been. How many deaths had he seen in his lifetime? How many had he caused? And Lavinia was one more to add to the dead chorus, another person he had killed.

But her life had not been taken in the same way. Guns were cold, impersonal. Whatever German man he had killed, that soldier's family wouldn't know that Matthew Crawley had taken their relation's life. Just the same, he could never know who had placed the shell that nearly blew him up, that killed William. War was odious enough on the surface, but the terrible impersonality, the anonymity, was even worse. To kill a man anywhere else was a crime, but on the battlefield it was looked upon as noble.

What a stupid worldview.

There were more impersonal deaths than he could count, and one that was far too personal. Spanish flu had surely weakened Lavinia, but he certainly didn't help. He was still ashamed of what he did, how he danced with Mary, how he kissed her, the passion and allure of the moment too strong to resist. He had kissed another woman while his fiancee was on her deathbed. It was terribly wrong, his love for Mary, but he couldn't contain it. They were over, had been over for five years, but somehow his affection for her had only grown.

That affection had cost Lavinia her life.

He had left the village, thankfully avoiding any unwanted conversation. The grounds were beautiful, the leaves beginning to change colors as fall was rapidly approaching. He was alone, in silence as he strolled down the paths, hoping not to run into people.

His hope was denied, as there was someone at the pond. A certain someone with dark hair peeking out of her red hat, who sat in a stately manner on the dock.

He couldn't ignore her. It was impossible to ignore Mary Crawley.

"Good morning," he said shyly. She didn't turn around, but she nodded to acknowledge his presence. He sat down on the edge of the dock, his feet dangling over the water, not quite touching.

"What are you doing out here?" Mary stared out into the distance, as if the answers to her problems could be found in the tree across the pond. "You've been so antisocial lately it's a wonder you're actually initiating conversation with me."

Couldn't she understand why? No, Mary did not let grief beat her down. She was strong, so much stronger than him. "I needed to escape the house. And should there be anything keeping me from making conversation with my cousin? I should think not."

"I'm just your cousin now?"

"Were we ever anything more? Really?"

She gave him an incredulous glance. "Do I need to answer that? You're ridiculous sometimes, you know."

"Maybe it would be better if we were just cousins. Just family..."

"You know how well that's going to work out."

He sighed heavily. She did speak the truth. They couldn't stay away from each other. "We keep destroying lives."

"You're still not going on about that, are you?" She nearly spat the words out, glaring at him.

"It isn't your fault, it's just mine. Lavinia died because of me and my stupidity."

She stared at him for a couple seconds, and suddenly she slapped him, leaving a stinging sensation on his cheek. He was taken aback. "You...you hit me," he stuttered, unable to say anything more intelligent.

"You deserved it," she said stubbornly. "Honestly, Matthew, you're so damned selfish!"

"Selfish? How on earth am I selfish?"

Mary was glaring at him even more fiercely that before. "Would Lavinia die of a broken heart? Really? You underestimated her strength. It was flu! The flu killed many people! It was a sad coincidence, I suppose, and we were both in the wrong, but stop blaming yourself and being so bloody selfish!"

He closed his eyes, trying to absorb all Mary had said. "Why was Lavinia the only one who died of the flu, out of all the people who were sick?"

"She just had a worse strain! Women don't die of broken hearts."

"Perhaps you wouldn't, but you can't speak for every woman."

She exhaled heavily. "Maybe not every woman, but I can speak for Lavinia. She wasn't so fragile as you though her. Disease can bloody well kill people too, death is not necessarily your fault!"

Matthew clenched his fists. Mud. Gunshots. Too many deaths were his fault, what was one more? He could take the blame for one more, he wanted the blame. "Mary, please. Don't you understand? I have killed people, and I'm not proud of any of it." His voice was much softer than it had been. It was so hard to remember, but even harder to forget.

"Of course," she said. Her voice too was more gentle, as she had to be whenever he started to talk about the war. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't see the image of Matthew shooting at people, killing people. Whatever his faults, he never wanted to hurt anyone.

The magnitude of the war, and how it changed people, was staggering.

"Do you really still believe that, Matthew? That we killed Lavinia?"

He shook his head. "I don't know what I believe anymore."

There was nothing else for her to say. She wanted more than anything to take his hand in hers and reassure him that despite all the struggles he had gone through, everything would be alright. But she couldn't. He was just her cousin, they shouldn't be so awkward, but then again he was so much more.

She was about to try and say something vaguely reassuring, though she doubted she could pull him from his dark mood, but Matthew started speaking again. "I'm not sure of anything anymore. I wish..."

"Yes?"

He shook his head. "There are so many things I wish, most of which cannot be fulfilled. If only the past five years were a dream."

"I know." Her hand started to gravitate towards his, the urge to pat his hand in reassurance nearly overwhelming, but she managed to resist.

"I've done so many things I regret...maybe it would have been better if a bullet had just finished me off. There were plenty that could have done so..."

Her eyes narrowed at him, and she felt a surge of anger. It was terrible of him to wish that, to say everything would be better if he was dead. It was a cruel thought, and she couldn't allow him to think that. "No, Matthew. It wouldn't have been better."

"Sometimes I think it would have. You wouldn't have me interfering with your relationship, Lavinia could be happy and alive, and..."

"If you really think that way, then this entire family has failed you." She slowly stood up from the dock, about to leave him, but her foot slipped. She didn't scream, but she gasped as suddenly her shoes and skirts began to soak.

She fell into the cold water, grabbing Matthew's hand to try and pull herself up. As she bobbed up, her hair wet and body cold, she saw she had pulled him in too. "Matthew! Are you okay?" Could he swim? What if he couldn't? She was worried, and she grasped his hand once again trying to make sure he was okay. "I'm really sorry!"

He treaded in the cold pond water, with a humorless laugh. "If you're trying to make me feel better, I don't think pulling me into the pond is the best way to do it."

"Really? I thought it was a wonderful way. Who doesn't love a nice swim in cold water on a chilly day in their clothes?" She swam to the side of the pond, climbing up through the grasses. "I'm afraid we both got rather wet." She gave him a rueful look.

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you not going to apologize?"

"You're rather hot-blooded, I thought you would appreciate the cool water."

"Apologize is not a synonym for insult, last time I checked." He swam, with a little bit more difficulty than Mary, back to the dock and managed to pull himself up. "What will mother say?"

She smirked and came back to the dock. "You've fought in a war, I think you're quite old enough to do odd things, such as swimming in ponds in your clothes, without her permission."

Matthew had to give her a smile in return. She certainly knew how to bring him out of his moods, even if it was an accident this time. Although knowing Mary, it might have been intentional. "I've missed this."

"Missed what?"

"Just...our banter, our friendship. So much has overshadowed all that..."

"Then should we..." Mary looked at him with uncertainty. He wasn't typically a mysterious person, but she couldn't tell what he was playing at.

"Should we try again? Try and be friends?"

She sighed. "Could we put everything past us?"

"I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to forget...everything. It isn't easy, but I do enjoy your company, Mary, and we can't fight forever."

"We weren't fighting," she said in the most innocent of tones.

He had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. "We weren't exactly the best of friends, although we're quite accomplished at pretending to be civil."

"Matthew..."

The overwhelming wish that he could tell Mary how much she still was in love with her nearly made the words spill out of his mouth, but he managed to not remark on it. Why should he be in love with her again? Well, again was misleading. He had never stopped loving her. Everything now was just a badly played game of love and loss where there was no true winner and no set rules. He was losing by a large margin, and Lavinia had fallen out of play entirely. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he couldn't hold back the tears. "I'm so sorry..."

"Don't be sorry for me, I'll be happy enough."

"Happy enough? Do you mean you're settling for something? You of all people."

She flicked some water from her still dripping sleeve into his face. He was already wet, but the gesture was good enough for her. "I'm not exactly the doe-eyed romantic when it comes to Carlisle." Mary said it forcefully, perhaps more so than she tried, but her implied meaning got across.

"I did love Lavinia, you know. I think we both had a romanticized view of each other, but I loved her in a way. Just not enough." His last words were whispered, and it was obvious the subject was troubling him deeply still.

Mary didn't know how to respond to him yet again. Whatever she said would not be helpful, not now. She was at a loss for words, a rarity for Mary Crawley. Instead, she stood up, still dripping onto the dock. "I should get home. Maybe I can get to my room unnoticed. Anna is very discreet." She gave him a encouraging smile. There was not much else she could do.

"Well, so should I," Matthew replied, plastering on a fake smile to match hers. Mary had given him a lot to think about. He held out his hand. "Do we part as friends, despite the fact that you pulled me into a cold pond?"

She rewarded his humor with a gentle laugh and took his hand firmly. "Of course."

The sky was gray, Matthew was dripping wet, and oddly, he felt better.

Well, that got angsty, but it might have been just what Matthew needed. Anyway, reviews are lovely and wonderful and always make me smile and also encourage me to write faster. Hope you liked it!