Happy Leap Year day! This just sprung into my head the other day, and I have no explanation or reason to it, I just hope you enjoy it!

Mary had decided, upon waking up that morning, that it was spring. It felt like spring. The sun was shining, it was not unpleasantly cold, and there was that indefinable smell in the air and the peeking buds beneath trees that irrefutably declared it to be spring.

The sky was bright, and she was bright, and happy. As she walked down to Crawley House, a large wicker basket in her arms filled with the finest picnic luncheon that Mrs. Patmore could spare, she found that she could not quite stop smiling.

"We're going for a picnic!" she declared resolutely to Matthew when she arrived, standing on the doorstep as though she wouldn't allow him a moment to ready himself, even.

"Are we?" he laughed, after kissing her in greeting. She swayed happily into him, then stood back, rocking on her heels a little.

"Yes!"

She hardly needed to answer, for he was already reaching behind the door for his coat. They were going for a picnic, it seemed.

"And where would you like to go, darling?" he wondered, stepping out and letting the door shut behind him. "You've not taken the car, so we'll have to walk –"

"Oh, I don't know! Anywhere," she shrugged. It was a beautiful day, she was with Matthew, she didn't care where on earth they were! "We needn't go anywhere – your garden is quite fine enough! I shall be quite happy wherever we are."

"Very well," Matthew chuckled, as his arm slipped around her waist.

The garden at Crawley House was lovely. Mary wasn't sure she'd ever appreciated it before, not really. She'd never had reason to; but now she looked at it with the delicate thrill of knowledge that one day very soon it would be her home, her garden. No, not hers! Theirs. While Matthew spread the blanket out on the grass, in the shade of the tree under the wall, Mary perused the flowerbeds and bushes, noting her favourite flowers and what grew well, taking joy in the sheer pleasure of being able to do this.

Matthew watched her, indulgently, a fond, happy smile gracing his lips as she pottered and then finally came to sit down beside him.

"Are you quite done inspecting my garden?" he chuckled.

"Well, it shall be my garden, too, soon!" Mary raised her eyebrows, tucking her skirt carefully around her curled legs. "I want to be sure it's just as I like it. And it is!"

"Good." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, softly. "I shall let old Mr. Molesley know that his handiwork meets your approval."

Mary smiled gracefully down. He was so silly, and so sweet to her. And she loved him very, very much.

"It does," she assured him, her voice much softer and serious all of a sudden, as she turned her head just a fraction and now he was very close to her, his warm, loving eyes and his kind smile and his lips... "All of it does, you know. I quite approve of everything."

"Do you really?" Matthew's question was shy, almost hesitant, and it made Mary laugh, because she understood him perfectly. How he couldn't quite believe it, that she should be happy with him. Oh, he knew that she loved him, utterly and entirely, she was quite sure of that. But he still couldn't understand that she could be content, in a small house, with a small garden, only a few servants, and a husband who had (or chose) to work for a living. Because she was still (always) Lady Mary Crawley.

"Oh, you silly dear," she smiled as she lifted a hand to touch his cheek. Yes, she would be content. With him – not with the house, the garden, any of that – it was perfectly fine, but it wasn't what mattered! – but with him.

She'd discovered very soon after their engagement that the best way to convince him of things like this, to reproach him, reassure him… was to kiss him.

So that, naturally, was what she did now.

She kissed him softly, and sweetly, and she smiled against his lips as he immediately responded to her with a gentle sigh. Maybe, she wondered, he acted so delightfully stupidly as a ploy. Would she mind if it were? She decided not, as he shuffled nearer on the blanket, their knees bumping awkwardly as they sought each other with eager lips and hands that tenderly caressed.

Before very long, at the moment her lips parted under his – so soft, and insistent – they seemed to mutually realise that sinking down to the blanket was a far better idea than kneeling which kept them too far, too distant. The picnic basket lay forgotten beside them, as her arms draped languidly around his neck, humming softly in pleasure at the feel of him leaning over her, holding himself up on one arm to maintain some sort of propriety – oh, he was such a darling!

Organically, inevitably, the kiss deepened, as they shifted gently together in the cool, pleasant spring breeze, protected from prying eyes by the shelter of the wall. Mary gasped – always gasped, no matter how often they'd kissed now that thrill always shook her – when his tongue dipped past her lips, seeking her admission… and she welcomed it with her own, relishing in slow, sweet, deep tastes of him. It was glorious. There was a perfect harmony about them, they fit, they were right, they were perfect together for surely she could imagine no kiss being more perfect, more sweet, than Matthew's. How had they ever believed that their lives could take any other path? How stupid they had been…

Quite without warning, and quite against Mary's intentions, an uncomfortable thought sprung into her mind. She squashed it down immediately, frowning gently as she pulled Matthew closer down to her, her fingers curling into his hair. Surely… No, she mustn't think that. What a silly thing to think. But, then, how –

Despite her efforts, Matthew felt her subtle shift, the flit of tension throughout her. Blinking, he pulled back, afraid that he'd hurt her or done – something…

"What is it, darling?" His face was a picture of innocent confusion, concern… Mary's thumb rubbed over his cheek and she shook her head, peering at him.

"No, I – I mustn't ask it. It's nothing really. Please, forget I –"

"What on earth mustn't you ask?" Matthew almost laughed at how curiously she was behaving, or he would've if it didn't worry him so much. "Don't be silly… What is it?"

"I can't, Matthew. Forget I said anything, please!" She leaned up to kiss him again, but managed no more than to press her lips ineffectually against his. Matthew frowned down at her, leaning on his elbows.

"How can I? Darling, there shouldn't be anything you feel you mustn't ask me. That's not how we are, so – well, you must ask me now. And –" he added, "whatever it is – I will answer truthfully."

What could she wonder about that she was afraid to ask him? A cold shiver ran down his back, as he suddenly grew aware of the breeze, of how it fluttered through the leaves above them. They'd done away with secrets, with hidden truths, misunderstandings based on their own stupid honour and silence. He pressed a swift, reassuring kiss to her forehead.

Mary licked her lips. "You see, it's only that I was… I was wondering, although you must have done, and – oh, it's terribly silly of me!" She blinked almost fearfully up at him, terribly ashamed that such a thing had even come to mind.

"No, I want you to. Mary… What's wrong?"

"Well," she started again. There was no getting out of it now, and… a part of her really did want to know, for her own peace of mind. "I've never thought of it before that – you – I suddenly wondered whether you'd kissed Lavinia. Like this. Of course, darling, I'm sorry…"

Matthew almost flinched at the name, forgotten between them for weeks now, and the reminder of all that it stood for. He couldn't answer immediately, and Mary worried very seriously that she'd upset him – well, he had a right to be upset! For her to bring Lavinia up, such a thing, just as they were… but for some reason, she felt an unshakeable urged to know. "I don't mind," she suddenly exclaimed, suddenly realising his hesitation. She smiled. "It isn't that I – mind, darling. I suppose you must have, of course. But you're right, there shouldn't be – any secret between us now, I don't want there to be. Not even that."

It was a natural question, Matthew supposed. God knew that he'd thought about her and – no, he didn't want to think about that now, not when they were like this, in such an embrace. And at once he quite understood that she needed to know.

"Yes, I did," he answered simply, quietly. He wouldn't lie about it, what would be the point in pretending? Mary nodded, smiled but it was weak. Oh, but he hadn't wanted to upset her! He frowned desperately, bringing his fingers to brush softly over her cheeks, her precious lips… All that was a distant memory, now. He kissed her forehead again, and looked very seriously at her, his voice low and earnest. "But it – you must know that it wasn't the same! It… wasn't ever the same."

Mary smiled at his concern, his sincerity. Somehow, she'd always known that. Matthew continued to gaze down at her, his fiancée, his Mary… How could he express it? To – kiss Lavinia – had been sweet, she was sweet, they were perfectly content together, but… it wasn't ever, ever quite the same as Mary. He'd always known that, deep down. A twinkle lit his eye as he smiled fondly down at her, attempting to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere. "And – anyway, darling – you were first!"

Mary's eyes widened. Was he really going to placate her with that! She chuckled though, unable to help appreciating his efforts.

"The very first?" she teased him, blushing at the memory of that impassioned, frantic kiss so long ago when they'd barely known each other at all.

His head ducked, a shy blush creeping over his cheeks.

"Yes…"

"You were awfully good at it then, considering!" she laughed delicately, raising her head to kiss him again softly. He was utterly endearing, even in the most serious of conversations. He continually delighted her, and she grinned at him now with a radiant smile, sorry for all her foolishness.

"Thank you…" he chuckled, then licked his lips. Brushing his thumb over her lips, his expression remained serious, and deeply honest. "Mary, I – know that I wasn't, and that I – won't be – the first." And suddenly they were talking about an awful lot more than the foolishness of kisses, and Mary's lips parted in a silent gasp. "But –" he continued before she could stop him. "Darling, you must know that… that doesn't matter to me. It doesn't, not even at all."

He'd never spoken of it since the night they became engaged, never mentioned it. Of course he hadn't, it would not be resurrected in their arguments, they didn't even want to think of it. But this wasn't an argument, and that he had thought of it – only to think that he didn't mind –

"Oh – Matthew…" she sighed, an affectionate frown crossing her brow. "Please don't –"

"Don't what?" he exclaimed. "Don't tell you that I love you, that it's alright, that you will always be the – the purest, and dearest, and best thing to me? Whatever might have been in the past? We neither of us have lived spotless lives, but that's – alright." He smiled, then, a pure smile of love and affection and adoration and everything that made her tingle with warmth and happiness. She smiled breathlessly in return, and pulled his head down to kiss him, softly, appreciatively.

"Darling, what have I ever done to deserve you?" she murmured against his lips.

"You've done everything to deserve me," he answered with a seriousness that shocked her for a moment, before he smiled, caressing her cheeks with great tenderness. "Which is nothing at all."

She'd done everything she needed to, to deserve him. And she didn't need to do anything. That was all there was to it. Her smile now was almost tearful, as a weight of almost overwhelming love pressed on her.

"Can we just – forget everything else?" she whispered. "That it is only us, that it only ever has been?"

He smiled down at her a moment, as if considering his answer.

"I very often do."

And then all thought or memory of other loves and other kisses was banished. Relegated, forgotten, thrown away to the back of their minds because they only needed each other. They only had each other, whatever lingered in their pasts. None of that mattered now, as they kissed on the blanket, on the lawn, under the bright spring sunshine in the dappled shade of the tree. They kissed, and loved each other, and knew that this was it. This was them. This was their lives, together, their future – to love, and share that love, and to know it implicitly and completely.

And they were content.

Thanks so much for reading - I'd love to know what you thought!