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Entry tags:
fic: boston marriage
Title: Boston Marriage
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters/Pairings: Mary, Lavinia, some mentions of Mary/Matthew and Lavinia/Matthew. And you can totally read it Mary/Lavinia if you like.
Rating: PG
Prompt: she never sends her away
Written for: Bechdel Test Comment Ficathon 2.0
Summary: Mary's never been needed before, always thought she would resent it, but she finds it strangely appealing and detests herself for it.
Even in the midst of her own grief, Lavinia seems to instinctively understand that Mary is the only one who is feeling Matthew's death as keenly as she herself is. She clings to Mary with a ferocity belying her own fragility (she's lost weight, become even more pale, and her lovely hair loses its luster); she seems afraid to let the other woman out of her sight. Mary, her heart more raw and throbbing with sorrow than she ever would have thought possible, clings back, but in a different way: she can't let anyone see what she's feeling, and so she dedicates herself to comforting Lavinia. She finds herself almost grateful for Lavinia's need; she's nearly certain that it's her own commitment to seeing Lavinia through this that is keeping her upright.
No one protests when Lavinia spends so much time at Downton, no one objects when Mary accompanies Lavinia whenever she returns home to London. Solemn eyes watch both women, and Mary is grateful that no one ever speaks a word (she isn't sure she could handle it).
--
Time passes, as it does, and even sorrow as overwhelming as Lavinia's (and Mary's) eventually eases. Lavinia recovers her color and her health and eventually stops grasping at Mary's wrist with a grip so desperate that Mary thinks the bone might give way. And Mary realizes that it's time to return to Downton for good.
Except that there's really nothing to go back to. She still loves everyone at home, but she no longer feels the need to be always around them (and it's really Carson she misses more than her family). Sir Richard is still waiting (not at all patiently, let it be said), but time has mellowed her desperate fear of her secrets being revealed, and one day when he calls, she tells him quite frankly that she doesn't care if he ruins her, but she won't be marrying him. She's fairly certain it's only Lavinia's quiet presence that keeps him from attacking her.
And then one day Mary can no longer rationalize even to herself her continued presence in Lavinia's life. The other woman is as well as she is ever going to be, and she doesn't need Mary any more (Mary's never been needed before, always thought she would resent it, but she finds it strangely appealing and detests herself for it).
Still, Mary manages to find reasons to delay her departure for as long as possible, until finally they peter out completely and she realizes she's being a coward. She marches down to the drawing room where Lavinia is reading a book in the sunlight streaming through the wide windows.
"I suppose your father's chauffeur can take me to the station tomorrow for the morning train?" She tries to sound pleasant, but she suspects that the determination with which she's forcing out the words comes through in her tone.
Lavinia looks up from her book, clearly startled, and blinks at her. "I...yes, of course." A pause. "Was there some reason you're needed at home? Everyone is well?"
Mary could laugh if she weren't feeling unreasonably sad. "No, everyone is well, thank you. I simply felt that it was no longer appropriate, my taking advantage of your hospitality this way." The words could be her mother's, but even though she knows she fails at being a proper lady in a thousand small ways and a half dozen large ones, she does know her etiquette--and even how to use it at times.
Lavinia bites her lip, and Mary wonders if her eyes have always been quite that large. "But Mary, you're not taking advantage at all." The words, gracious, are awkward in Lavinia's mouth. She's never had Mary's polish; instead, her sweetness is genuine. But sweetness has never been much valued by the nobility. "You couldn't possibly. I like having you here."
Mary sinks into a nearby chair. "And I like being here, dearest." She nearly never used words like that for her sisters, not even for Sybil, who she's always petted. But somehow they seem right for Lavinia. "But you don't need me anymore, do you?" She's abandoned any attempt at propriety.
"No, I suppose not." Lavinia seems to wilt a bit. "Are you terribly anxious to get back to Downton?"
Now Mary does laugh, a little. "I have to admit that I am not. But it is home." She reminds herself of Carson's gruff, kind ways, of the free feeling of riding her horse across an open field, of the lack of smog and stench in the open air. There are good things there.
Lavinia has put down her book and is twisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands. "Must you leave, then?" she suddenly blurts, leaving Mary gaping in surprise.
"I don't suppose I must," she finally says when she recovers.
Lavinia drops her eyes; when she raises them, there's hope shining there. Mary marvels, not for the first time, how open Lavinia is with every emotion, how vulnerable she allows herself to be. She finds herself suddenly terrified that someone might take advantage of that vulnerability and that Lavinia will have no one to protect her. "Will you stay, then?"
--
Mary promises herself that at the first sign that Lavinia is growing tired of her, she'll leave immediately.
--
Years pass, and she never leaves.
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Characters/Pairings: Mary, Lavinia, some mentions of Mary/Matthew and Lavinia/Matthew. And you can totally read it Mary/Lavinia if you like.
Rating: PG
Prompt: she never sends her away
Written for: Bechdel Test Comment Ficathon 2.0
Summary: Mary's never been needed before, always thought she would resent it, but she finds it strangely appealing and detests herself for it.
Even in the midst of her own grief, Lavinia seems to instinctively understand that Mary is the only one who is feeling Matthew's death as keenly as she herself is. She clings to Mary with a ferocity belying her own fragility (she's lost weight, become even more pale, and her lovely hair loses its luster); she seems afraid to let the other woman out of her sight. Mary, her heart more raw and throbbing with sorrow than she ever would have thought possible, clings back, but in a different way: she can't let anyone see what she's feeling, and so she dedicates herself to comforting Lavinia. She finds herself almost grateful for Lavinia's need; she's nearly certain that it's her own commitment to seeing Lavinia through this that is keeping her upright.
No one protests when Lavinia spends so much time at Downton, no one objects when Mary accompanies Lavinia whenever she returns home to London. Solemn eyes watch both women, and Mary is grateful that no one ever speaks a word (she isn't sure she could handle it).
--
Time passes, as it does, and even sorrow as overwhelming as Lavinia's (and Mary's) eventually eases. Lavinia recovers her color and her health and eventually stops grasping at Mary's wrist with a grip so desperate that Mary thinks the bone might give way. And Mary realizes that it's time to return to Downton for good.
Except that there's really nothing to go back to. She still loves everyone at home, but she no longer feels the need to be always around them (and it's really Carson she misses more than her family). Sir Richard is still waiting (not at all patiently, let it be said), but time has mellowed her desperate fear of her secrets being revealed, and one day when he calls, she tells him quite frankly that she doesn't care if he ruins her, but she won't be marrying him. She's fairly certain it's only Lavinia's quiet presence that keeps him from attacking her.
And then one day Mary can no longer rationalize even to herself her continued presence in Lavinia's life. The other woman is as well as she is ever going to be, and she doesn't need Mary any more (Mary's never been needed before, always thought she would resent it, but she finds it strangely appealing and detests herself for it).
Still, Mary manages to find reasons to delay her departure for as long as possible, until finally they peter out completely and she realizes she's being a coward. She marches down to the drawing room where Lavinia is reading a book in the sunlight streaming through the wide windows.
"I suppose your father's chauffeur can take me to the station tomorrow for the morning train?" She tries to sound pleasant, but she suspects that the determination with which she's forcing out the words comes through in her tone.
Lavinia looks up from her book, clearly startled, and blinks at her. "I...yes, of course." A pause. "Was there some reason you're needed at home? Everyone is well?"
Mary could laugh if she weren't feeling unreasonably sad. "No, everyone is well, thank you. I simply felt that it was no longer appropriate, my taking advantage of your hospitality this way." The words could be her mother's, but even though she knows she fails at being a proper lady in a thousand small ways and a half dozen large ones, she does know her etiquette--and even how to use it at times.
Lavinia bites her lip, and Mary wonders if her eyes have always been quite that large. "But Mary, you're not taking advantage at all." The words, gracious, are awkward in Lavinia's mouth. She's never had Mary's polish; instead, her sweetness is genuine. But sweetness has never been much valued by the nobility. "You couldn't possibly. I like having you here."
Mary sinks into a nearby chair. "And I like being here, dearest." She nearly never used words like that for her sisters, not even for Sybil, who she's always petted. But somehow they seem right for Lavinia. "But you don't need me anymore, do you?" She's abandoned any attempt at propriety.
"No, I suppose not." Lavinia seems to wilt a bit. "Are you terribly anxious to get back to Downton?"
Now Mary does laugh, a little. "I have to admit that I am not. But it is home." She reminds herself of Carson's gruff, kind ways, of the free feeling of riding her horse across an open field, of the lack of smog and stench in the open air. There are good things there.
Lavinia has put down her book and is twisting the fabric of her skirt in her hands. "Must you leave, then?" she suddenly blurts, leaving Mary gaping in surprise.
"I don't suppose I must," she finally says when she recovers.
Lavinia drops her eyes; when she raises them, there's hope shining there. Mary marvels, not for the first time, how open Lavinia is with every emotion, how vulnerable she allows herself to be. She finds herself suddenly terrified that someone might take advantage of that vulnerability and that Lavinia will have no one to protect her. "Will you stay, then?"
--
Mary promises herself that at the first sign that Lavinia is growing tired of her, she'll leave immediately.
--
Years pass, and she never leaves.