This drabble was written per request for a Modern Mary and Charles story. How long it may go, I am still uncertain. But there will be additions. Thanks to Cls2011 and miscreant rose for the proofing, laughter and friendship.

I do hope you enjoy. And as always, your feedback is most welcome. :)

Her mouth tastes foul, her head rumbling so loudly she cannot bring herself to open her eyes. She buries her face into the pillow, breathing in its scent, savoring its muskiness, drinking in its appeal, reveling in its masculinity.

Masculinity? Her heart stops in a flash. Where the hell was she?

The room spins as she pushes herself up on wobbly arms, and she bites back a curse as a flash of pain sears behind her eye sockets. Just blink, just breathe, she tells herself, and she reopens her eyes slowly, a sense of dread weighing down every muscle.

She is in a bedroom. One she doesn't know.

She checks herself quickly—confused and relieved by the fact that she is fully clothed save her shoes. Everything is fastened properly, even her jewelry has been left intact. The other side of the bed has not been slept in.

What happened here? And where was she?

No other signs of life greet her as she examines her surroundings. This is clearly a man's room—a single man's room—the lack of feminine accouterments almost startling. It is a space of beiges and blacks, modern yet comfortable, and she searches for a picture, for anything, for evidence of who brought her to a place so alarmingly foreign.

There—on the dresser—a photo of an older couple clearly celebrating an anniversary. Little good that does her, so she quickly dons her shoes as she scopes her surroundings further. Cologne, books by Michael Connely and George R. R. Martin, nothing of use in her fruitless quest for answers.

Nothing to ease her sense of overriding panic.

A breath to steady herself, a swallowing down of bile, and she opens the bedroom door, stepping into a small hallway still dim in the early morning. Is that coffee brewing, she wonders, now more fearful than ever that someone may lie in wait. She tosses her purse over her shoulder, ready to use it as a weapon, forcing legs to move forward as she makes her way around the corner.

Her breath halts in her throat.

There—on the couch—a man, the one who must have brought her here, sleeps soundly.

She hears a drip behind her, and quickly turns her head, seeing a coffee maker hard at work with no one nearby. And then she spies it, what must be the front door, and she moves towards it stealthily, biting her bottom lip, hoping to make a clean get-away.

"Would you like some coffee first?"

His voice is lethargic, and she rounds on him quickly, staring into brown eyes still weighted with sleep.

"Who are you?"

He sits up slowly, running hands across the back of his neck.

"I might ask you the same question."

His easy attitude infuriates her as a throbbing in her temples forces her to close her eyes.

"Why did you bring me here?" she demands, determined to refocus, desperate to be in charge.

"You were drunk," he replies smoothly, standing and stretching with ease. "Terribly drunk, to be honest. I couldn't let you drive home, and you passed out cold in my car."

"So you brought me to your place, is that it?" she throws back, wincing at the volume of her own retort. "To take advantage of a woman who couldn't even say yes or no?"

He chuckles to himself, walking past her with a sideways glance as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"If I had ravished you last night, do you think I'd have slept on the sofa in my sweats?"

Somehow what he says is logical, and she hates it. She needs to despise him, to make him responsible for the frightening vulnerability she feels.

"Would you like some coffee?"

Outstretched hands offer her a mug, the scent emanating from it too powerful to resist. She takes it from him without a word, inhaling the steam greedily.

"If you didn't ravish me, then why bother with me at all?" she questions, taking a halting sip. "Why not simply call me a cab?"

"And how was I supposed to know your address without rifling through your purse?"

He rakes fingers through dark hair, giving her a look she cannot quite read.

"I don't make a practice out of going through the personal belongings of strange women or bringing them to my flat," he states curtly. "But I couldn't leave you at the mercy of that one buffoon who was grappling you at the bar. So I gave you a ride."

A hazy image flits through her mind, the memory of meaty hands stroking what they shouldn't suddenly making her cringe.

"You told him I was with you—the other man at the bar."

The words leave her of their own accord, fractured scenes breaking across her memory in murky grays.

"Ah, she remembers," he acclaims, moving to take his coffee from the couch, inviting her to do the same.

"Barely," she admits, staring at him warily before stepping any closer.

"Good God, if I didn't touch you last night when you couldn't have stopped me, I'm certainly not going to try anything when I've just put a steaming mug of coffee in your hand. Give me some credit."

She sits slowly, needing more answers even if they make her feel ashamed.

"I was really that drunk?"

His arched brow answers her wordlessly.

She sighs into her mug, mortified in more ways than one.

"What happened?"

His question hovers between them, finally attracting her gaze.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look like a bar fly, and you're clearly embarrassed by the fact that you were so out of it last night," he observes, eyeing her measuredly. "Which leads me to believe that something clearly upset you yesterday."

"Getting a bit personal, aren't we?" she throws back, quelling a spell of nausea she refuses to acknowledge.

"Well, you did sleep in my bed last night."

The trace of a grin breaks across his face, and she can't help the snicker of air that escapes her nostrils.

"And that gives you the right to pry into my personal affairs?"

He sets his mug on the table, and leans back, crossing his arms across his chest.

"No," he returns, eyes narrowing in her direction. "But it does make me curious."

She fights back the oncoming darkness, the stab in her chest, the hopelessness that shook her to the point of breaking just hours ago.

"My ex-fiancée just got married," she admits, attempting to chase away unwanted demons by airing her pain. "To someone else."

"Yesterday?" he queries, his brow creasing in concern.

"Yes. Yesterday."

He takes her mug from trembling hands, setting on the table next to his, daring to touch her arm.

"I'm sorry."

A hot tear escapes unbidden, and she wipes it away in haste, swallowing back a torrent threatening to break free.

"I knew it was coming," she breathes, her tongue unnaturally thick. "I just never thought…"

A shaky breath rattles from her lungs, her face dropping out of his scrutiny.

"You can't think when it comes to things like this," he offers. "Not reasonably, anyway. Feelings somehow always get in the way."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," she tosses back, eager to move the conversation from her situation to his.

His silence beckons her gaze, and she stares into an expression she somehow clearly understands.

"My wife left me eight months ago," he states, grabbing his coffee for a gulp that has to burn all the way down. "For another man."

"I'm sorry."

"So was I."

His reply catches her off-guard, and she stares at him in curiosity.

"She left me for a rich man," he expounds. "One who could give her the kind of lifestyle I couldn't. I have come to the conclusion that if our marriage meant that little to her, it couldn't have been much of a marriage, now could it?"

"And you're over it? Already?" she questions, quirking her brow in doubt.

"No," he admits with a shrug. "But I will be."

"How can you be certain?" she presses, leaning towards him unconsciously. "That you'll get over it? What if you never do?"

His chuckle surprises her, and he takes another large drink of his coffee, rubbing his lips together in the aftermath.

"Because I've decided I must," he answers, suddenly unable to look away from her. "Why should I hang on to the memory of her if she was more than willing to let go of me?"

Her heart hammers in her ears, and she feels the sudden urge to vomit.

"Oh, God, here," he intervenes, catching her off guard as he lowers her head between her legs. "Just breathe. Don't pass out on me again."

She pushes him away with force, staring into a rather startled expression.

"I'm not about to faint," she argues, breathing in deeply.

"Are you sure?" he pushes back, touching her forehead warily. "You just turned rather green."

"That's because I feel sick," she asserts, drawing another deep breath, watching as he hops up from the couch with a curse. She hears him rummaging for something, and he returns with a bucket, setting it in front of her with an apologetic look.

"Just in case," he states with a shrug.

Something about his expression strikes her as funny, and she begins to laugh, wincing at the discomfort it brings to both her head and stomach.

"What's so funny?" he asks, grinning in spite of himself.

"I have no idea," she muses, her merriment morphing into a groan that prompts him to rub her back.

"Please don't get sick," he pleads as she closes her eyes. "I just had the carpets cleaned last week."

Her body begins to shake again, and they are laughing together. She gulps in air as tension and pain seek a release, the lightness of this ridiculous moment worth more to her than a king's ransom.

"Are you better?" he inquires, leaning in closer, attempting to gauge her complexion. "Do you need some fresh air or anything?"

"I'd kill for a ginger-ale," she replies, catching her breath as steadily as she can.

"Sorry," he replies. "Will Sprite do?"

"Yes," she answers, looking at this man through very different eyes than she had just minutes ago. "A Sprite will do nicely."

"I'll be right back, then."

She listens to him pad back towards the kitchen, her mind twirling to catch up to this turn of events. Ice hits the bottom of a glass, and she feels her body respond physically to the sound of carbonation being poured.

He is back then, offering her the drink, receiving a small smile for his efforts.

"Thank you," she breathes, noting how becoming a smattering of dark stubble is on a clean jaw.

"Don't mention it," he returns, watching her a bit too closely as she swallows. "Just protecting my investment."

"So your motives are strictly monetary, then," she remarks, sipping more with pleasure, reveling at the feel of bubbles on her tongue.

"Strictly," he grins, warming her insides.

"So how do you explain stepping in and taking care of me last night?" she queries, imbibing in another drink.

"You'll get my bill," he retorts, making her grin yet again. "I am outlandishly expensive, I should warn you."

"So I'll have to break into my piggy bank?" she muses.

"Smash it to bits," he states with a shrug. "I have to pay my alimony somehow, now don't I?"

"Wait," she says incredulously. "Your wife left you for a richer man, but you have to pay her alimony?"

"Did I mention the rich man is a divorce lawyer?" he queries, smiling ruefully at the rounding of her eyes.

"No," she answers. "You somehow failed to mention that." She sighs, shaking her head. "Funnily enough, my ex is an attorney, as well."

"Here's to justice," he replies, picking up his mug and offering it up for a toast. She holds out her glass haltingly as they clink them together.

"No—to us," he amends. "May we both be free of those who bind us sooner rather than later."

"Cheers," she whispers, drawing the glass to her lips slowly, watching as he downs what remains of his coffee.

"Shall I make you some breakfast?" he offers, laughing at the grimace that greets him upon the mention of food. "Shall I take that as a 'no'?"

"You certainly should if you want to protect your carpet," she returns, relishing a slight relaxation just under her ribs.

"Then no it is," he agrees, leaning back into the cushions. "I'm Charles, by the way. Charles Blake."

"Mary Crawley," she says, fitting his name to his face, deciding it suits. "I suppose I should call for a cab."

"If you like," he muses. "But I'm happy to give you a ride if you're willing to wait a few minutes. I'm heading out for a jog at the park before it gets too hot."

"Too hot?" she asks. "It's only March."

"What can I say?" he quips. "I like the cold when it comes to running."

"Ugh," she retorts with a shiver, eliciting a hearty chuckle from her unexpected companion. "Give me the heat any day."

A silence descends as one pair of eyes dances around the other.

"So which is it?" he finally asks, pressing his lips together. "A cab or a wait?"

"I can wait, I suppose," she replies, not quite ready to leave this unlikely sanctuary. "And finish my Sprite and coffee."

"The breakfast of champions," he quips, standing slowly. He looks at her meaningfully, dropping his gaze momentarily to his feet. "Take as long as you need."

"Don't tempt me," she muses, knowing what memories await her at home. "I might take over your bedroom again and bar the door."

A look of pained camaraderie meets her head-on.

"You don't have to bar the door," he states simply. "If you need the time and space, take it. You can rest while I run, if you like."

It strikes her as odd how tempting his offer actually is.

He turns, moving towards his bedroom, brushing fingers through thick hair, giving her time and space to answer. And she leans back into the cushions, allowing her stomach to settle, wondering just what she will tell him when he comes back.