Summary: Marshall's inner life and mysterious past suggest that this complicated man has much more heartbreak to his story than what might come from any woman, even Mary.

Spoilers: Will touch on Marshall throughout the series eps up to the end of S2.

Just to give it a try, I am breaking a personal rule and actually posting a continuous fic rather than a complete-only. We'll see how I do.

Standard disclaimer: this is an unauthorized derivative work based on the USA Network's original series In Plain Sight. I receive no profits from this work, and the intent of this work is to get more people interested in the show.

Marshall knew exactly when he and Mary became friends. It was the racketeering case. The 28 year old journalist wanted to stay in the business. Marshall agreed; it wasn't like his total of three bylines over the course of his career meant much. Mary violently and volubly disagreed. Stan herded them to the balcony so he could "hear himself think" and then locked them outside during the record-breaking hot July afternoon.

Mary glared at Stan, who mouthed through the window "Work it out!"

"Got a hairpin on you?" she asked Marshall.

"Why in the hell would I have a hairpin?" Marshall snapped at her.

"I don't know. You're being such a girl about our witness I assumed you'd have something girly on you."

Marshall wrinkled his nose. "Ha, ha. Your wit amazes me, Marshal Shannon."

Mary gave him a sidelong glance. "That's Mary to you, numbnuts. Now help me pick this lock."

Marshall stifled a smile. On their first day of work, he tried calling her Mary and she planted a booted foot on his instep. "And how did you pass the criminal background check for this job?"

"I needed something to go with my good looks and charm. Help me figure this out."

Marshall felt through his pockets. Keys, wallet, gun. Mary's firearm lay in her desk drawer. Stan checked that she was unarmed before locking them out, knowing full well that Mary would otherwise have shot the glass and been done with it. As Mary jiggled the lock, she resumed their previous argument. "We can't have him in the journalism field. It's just too small."

"He was working for a local daily paper, and hadn't even printed anything yet."

"Right. That rinky-dink local paper is one of thousands of rinky-dink papers owned by the Knight-Ridder chain."

Marshall glared at her. "So?"

"So that means that that paper is part of a national network, meaning that he's immediately listed on a national database of employees."

"We've had people work for franchises that were national chains without a problem."

"Yes, but there's a big difference between a franchise that involves filling a Slushy machine and one writing news stories. Gas stations don't usually keep employee pictures on file in a national database."

Marshall pulled out a credit card and handed it to Mary. "Sometimes the wiggling trick works."

Mary began jiggling at the lock while Marshall almost involuntarily launched into a monologue on the fourth estate. "It's an important role in our country, so why take a talented kid away from that?"

Mary set down the credit card. "OK, in the middle of that long and boring talk did you think about what journalists do?"

"They seek the truth –"

"And how do they do that?"

"Ask questions."

"And to do that what do they have to do?"

"Find people to ask those questions…oh." Marshall almost blushed. Some of those people would in turn ask questions about the reporter – lots of questions. The kind of questions that end with phone calls to editors at even crap weekly papers. Journalists all share a tendency to dig exactly where they are discouraged from going. It killed him a little. He knew what it meant, not to do the thing you invested your passion in. In this case, his own frustration made him overlook the obvious with his witness.

"So slinging coffee it is?"

"Yes. There's a Starbuck's on Academy Road that has an opening." Mary resumed jiggling.

Stan appeared at the door to unlock it. "What are you two doing out here? Come in before you idiots get heat stroke!"

Marshall and Mary shared a sidelong glance, and a single thought about Stan. Asshole.

With that shared thought, they were friends. Mary told Marshall to meet her for a drink at the end of the day. He didn't think twice. "You just assume I'm available tonight Marshal Shannon."

"You don't have any cases pending for the next two weeks. And call me Mary, numbnuts."

"How about you call me Marshall?"

"Sure thing numbnuts."