Disclaimer: I do not own In Plain Sight, I just love to play with the characters. This story has borrowed a line from The Vampire Diaries and a couple lines and ideas from BBC's Blackpool. I thank these shows for being so amazing that their words would not leave my brain and hope their real owners will forgive me for using them here.
Chapter 1
Washington D.C
"How's the trial going?"
Marshall sighed heavily. His witness has been scheduled to give testimony the day before yesterday, but the defense was using every stall tactic in the book and a few Marshall was pretty certain they'd made up just to torment him. He'd barely slept in 72 hours and every noise outside the second floor condo where they were hiding their witness set his fight or flight into overdrive. "Tomorrow morning. We're first on the schedule and the judge promised to keep it to one day. Either way, we're not coming back here." Marshall scanned the street outside for the thousandth time. It was empty except a homeless man sleeping in the doorway across and down three units. "We've been here too long already. I don't like it."
"Hang in there." Stan said in his best encouraging-the-troops voice. "I'll make sure there's another safe house lined up in case you need one more night."
"Thanks." Marshall forced himself to step away from the window. One sure way to draw extra attention: having a guy staring out at the street every five minutes all through the night. "How is everything in Albuquerque?"
"Your witnesses are fine. We've got two incoming tomorrow. I thought I'd give them to Charlie. About time he took on a new case solo."
Marshall nodded even though Stan couldn't see. Charlie Connor was a good kid, sharp, hard-working, but green as a fig beetle. So far in the six months Charlie had been in Albuquerque he'd shadowed Marshall on visits, taken over some older, stable witnesses to free up Marshall's time for incoming cases, but otherwise his presence hadn't lightened the overworked ABQ office at all. "I think he's ready."
"Hope so. This one'll be a little tricky. You're getting a new one as well, but she won't be in until day after tomorrow. If you're still in DC I'll do the intake and you can meet her when you get back."
The word tricky stuck in Marshall's ear. It wasn't one Stan used often. Also unusual was the arrival of three witnesses so close on one another's heels. The two Charlie was taking he assumed were a couple, which meant the third was… "Not again Stan." He groaned.
"Sorry." Stan said, sounding almost like he meant it. They'd had this fight before, and Marshall always lost. "Mistress is a witness too, and she refused to enter the program unless they were kept together."
"I hate this."
"I know."
Marshall looked at his watch. Twenty past twelve. He needed to try and sleep. There were two local marshals in the next room who were tasked with the night shift and he was no good to anyone like this, strung out on stress and utterly exhausted. "You'll let me know about the safe house?"
"First thing tomorrow."
"Goodnight, Stan."
"'Night."
Marshall plugged in his phone and set it on the short wicker stand next to the single bed he'd barely slept in for the last four days. With a brief prayer that they would get Jonathan's testimony over with first thing in the morning so he could get back home, he lay down and tried to sleep.
Two Days Later
Albuquerque, NM
Marshall was used to dealing with scum; he'd been a WITSEC inspector for five years and four generations of Mann men before him had worn the silver star. But he didn't know if he would ever get used to this. Not for the first time, and sadly probably not for the last, WITSEC was facilitating adultery and Marshal Marshall Mann was front and center
I thought she'd be blonde. It was the first thought that sprang across Marshall's mind when he caught sight of his new witness through the Venetian blinds of the conference room. It wasn't that Marshall had anything against blondes... well, not all blondes... Though there was something about the breed of women who paid hundreds of dollars to leech the natural pigment from their hair and then paid someone else hundreds of dollars to spray pigment all over their skin that put him in mind of high school mean girls and over-coiffed poodles and just plain set his teeth on edge. And although Mama Mann had taught him well and Marshall was deeply respectful of all women, he couldn't help but expect Britney-the-Mistress to be one of those peroxide, acrylic, and spray tan creations. The glimpse of ginger ponytail that formed his first impression of his new witness seemed to be just the opposite.
And then he entered the conference room and was treated to the full visual: from artfully messy hair arranged around a sparkling headband in that too-casual way that takes at least an hour longer to achieve than a more coiffed look, to the two size too small top out of which two too perky not to be plastic breasts were desperately trying to escape. There was definitely something of the high school mean girl in this 110lb package. She didn't raise her head when Marshall entered, but blue eyes, brightened by colored contacts, peered at him through a cloud of false lashes and blue eyeliner and her acrylic tipped fingers stopped drumming their relentless tattoo upon the table for the split second it took her to appraise him and then resumed.
Marshall dropped the MOU on the table and took a fiendish delight in both the loud crack of it landing and the flinch of his witness. He could have sworn he used to be a nicer man, but five years of dealing with as many criminals as victims had soured much of his enjoyment of the human race. He supposed this was why most marshals worked in pairs. But the Albuquerque office was small and other than a few marshals who had cycled through, most staying less time than it took the average witness to become economically self-sufficient, Marshall had been on his own. Charlie was the longest lasting so far, and he had been there barely six months. Thank God for Stan. The older marshal's sometimes goofy sometimes dark sense of humor was up to lightening almost every situation they had yet to come across and, more importantly, Stan had supported Marshall to the bone whenever he ran up against bureaucratic barriers – with the exception of the three cases over five years that Marshall had all but begged Stan to turn away. They were more than boss and employee; they were friends. Both were single; Stan didn't have a family; Marshall's was in another state and he didn't get to see them as much as he wished he could; and neither of them seemed able to make a relationship work longer than they could get a second junior marshal to stay with the ABQ WITSEC office.
There had been a time when Marshall lamented the limited nature of his life in Albuquerque, but he'd grown used to it; he was comfortable with the loneliness and the dull sense that his life was somehow incomplete. He wasn't depressed or even unhappy, but sometimes, when he let his guard down he had a creeping sensation that something was missing, or someone; like the life he was living wasn't the one he was meant to. Which of course was ridiculous. Alternate lives were wonderful in science fiction movies, but Marshall was a man who knew his fiction from cold hard reality. As he looked across the table at Britney he wished, just for a moment, that he was the kind of man who believed in alternate lives, surely alternate-Marshall was having a better day than this one.
"Hello Britney, I'm Marshall. This Memorandum of Understanding," he tapped the cover of the MOU, "constitutes the entire agreement between you and the US Marshal Service. It lays out our obligations to you and your requirements to maintain status as a protected witness. Do you have any questions before we get started?"
The tapping stopped again as her fingers moved to twirl the heart-shaped pendant hanging around her neck. She looked Marshall straight in the eye for the first time and asked, in a voice that was half an octave lower than Marshall would have presumed, "Where's Mark? That guy in the cheap blue suit… Stew or something?... he said if I testify I can stay with Mark."
Marshall looked to Stan for help. He assumed Mark was one of Charlie's new witnesses, but he'd been back in Albuquerque less than six hours and he wasn't fully up to speed on the events of the day before.
Stan cleared his throat. "Mark is safe."
Marshall couldn't tell if Stan was being deliberately unhelpful or if he was just honouring their duty to protect their witnesses' location, but by the way Britney straightened her spine, uncrossing her legs and folding her arms across her chest he could see she thought it was the first option.
"Well I'm not signing no contact until I see him." The head toss that accompanied her declaration would have been more effective if every hair on her head hadn't been painstakingly lacquered into place.
Years of experience hiding his feelings was all that allowed Marshall to conceal his frustration. He had dealt with mistresses entering the program before; three times in five years some cheating scumbag had held enough juicy information that the DOJ was willing to supply just about every demand, but this was the first time the mistress of a witness had herself been a witness. The DOJ was adamant it needed both of them, which meant that at least to the extent that it was possible without compromising their witnesses' security, they were at the mercy of a tiny redheaded woman from the Jersey shore.
"We'll see what we can do." Marshall said in a measured voice, pushing back from the table and walking with slow, deliberate steps from the room.
Stan followed close behind, neither man speaking until they were safely shut inside Stan's office with the blinds drawn.
"I don't like this," Marshall said, his hands coming to rest on his hips. "The DOJ wanted us to put them in the same city, fine. But I am not orchestrating this man's affair. If she walks after she's seen him we'll have to move him and his wife, and who knows if he'll stay in the program without his mistress."
Stan waited until Marshall finished before picking up the phone. "Charlie? How soon can you be back at the office?"
Marshall couldn't make out more than a murmur on the other line.
"Okay." Stan listened for a few moments. "Good. Listen, we need the wife out of there for a few hours—"
"Stan!" Marshall protested, but Stan shook his head no and resumed his conversation, this time with his back to Marshall.
"Yeah, she wants to see him before she signs the MOU… I'd send Marshall but… Exactly." Stan flipped through a couple pieces of paper on his desk. "Has she gone for her interview yet? Okay… at four?"
Marshall checked his watch, it was half past two.
"Okay. That is perfect. See you in twenty… Okay… Okay, goodbye." Stan hung up the phone and turned to face Marshall. He held up a hand for silence. "Mark's wife will be gone from quarter to four to about five thirty for a job interview I set up for her yesterday down at Burt's—"
"Burt's Tiki Lounge?" Marshall's eyebrows rose to his hairline. The locally owned, extremely popular dive bar was a security nightmare. Hundreds of people, many of them tourists who had seen the articles in Esquire or Stuff calling it one of the "best dive bars in the country," passed through Burt's every week, most of them drunken young adults with camera phones and poorly guarded social networking profiles.
"I know." Stan held up two hands to forestall the argument he could see forming on Marshall's brow. "It's a security breach waiting to happen, but you didn't meet this witness. I don't think we're going to have to worry about the bar bunnies begging her to pose for a photo."
Instinctively Marshall's hackles raised at what he perceived to be an aspersion against this woman he'd never met. He couldn't help it; objectification of women was one of his no-go-zones.
"I'm not saying she isn't a good looking woman." Stan said, rolling his eyes at Marshall's tense jaw. "So don't you even think about educating me on gender equality or women's suffrage. Just trust me, this was a good fit and the security risk is probably less at Burt's than it would be anywhere else in the city."
Marshall doubted that, but he held his tongue. Stan hadn't been given control of the Albuquerque office because no one else wanted it; he had earned the post through hard work and damn good instincts. Marshall tilted his head in wordless acceptance of Stan's greater wisdom and waited for the rest of the explanation.
"As I was saying, Mary will be gone at her interview for about an hour and a half, should be plenty of time for you and Charlie to bring Mark here, get Britney's MOU underway, and we can have Mark home before the missus notices he's missing."
Marshall looked skeptical. It was a simple plan, one might even call it easy, which in his experience meant it was almost guaranteed to go wrong. "And when Mary arrives home and Mark still isn't home yet?"
"Then Mark can tell her we needed him to finish up some last minute paper work having to do with their financial assets." Stan's smile was more smug than any cat who'd ever lunched on canary.
3:55 PM
Even by WITSEC standards, the apartment complex the Sheppards now called home was bleak. The five floor building on the edge of town featured one elevator which was out as often as it worked and a stucco exterior that was in serious need of a good power wash, if not a complete overhaul. The interior had been renovated sometime in the late nineties and was at least clean, if blander than most hospitals. The walls were a washed out grey, half a shade lighter than the once-grey-now-beige carpets that lined the hallways. The rooms were numbered with simple black numbers hung diagonally across the door – the closest thing to 'décor' to be found on the premises. There were three buildings, built in a horseshoe around a 'garden' that was more weeds than grass and a parking lot with exactly one stall per unit, numbered and marked out with threatening signs about the towing of unauthorized vehicles, and only two for guests in the entire lot.
Marshall let Charlie lead the way up three flights of stairs and halfway down a bleak, empty hall to room 432. The younger man knocked twice and then stepped back and waited patiently for Mark to answer. He looked a little nervous and Marshall hid a small smile behind a cough. He remembered well his first real witness. He could recognize the combination of trepidation and pride in the young marshal's countenance. Charlie would make a solid US Marshal one day. Already some of the green was beginning to wear off.
The door opened only as far as the chain would allow and Marshall mentally congratulated Charlie for driving home the importance of security, while making a mental note to have a peephole installed in the door the next day. A chain on the door wasn't much good against a gun or anyone determined to get inside. After a brief moment, the door swung open fully and Marshall got his first glimpse of Mark Sheppard. Marshall wondered what Mark's real last name had been, he hadn't really looked at the file, but the blonde man who opened the door didn't look like a Sheppard, more like a Schmidt – something good and Germanic. Mark was a couple inches shorter than Marshall, but by no means short. His broad shoulders filled out the pinstriped dress shirt he wore as if it had been tailored to fit him, which made the mussed hair and two day stubble look like a fashion choice. If Marshall hadn't been predisposed to dislike Mark by the presence of Britney, he probably wouldn't have thought anything of the other man's appearance, but as it stood he couldn't help feeling an intense distain towards this perfectly rumpled peacock of a man; he was glad Stan had given the couple to Charlie.
He wondered what the wannabe-surfer-dude-turned-savvy-businessman Burt would think of the strategically dishevelled blonde his brain had created under the name Mary Sheppard. If Mark had a type, and it seemed like he did, Marshall thought he could probably pick Mary Sheppard out of a crowd without really trying. These three were going to stick out like a sore thumb in the laid back function over fashion atmosphere of Albuquerque. If this was going to work, someone was going to have the convince Mark and his harem that their safety depended on their ability to blend in, which meant losing the big city, east coast hipster vibe. Sometimes, Marshall thought, it would be nice to have a female marshal who could deal with that kind of conversation. The thought of him giving Britney advice on fashion was almost too horrifying to be funny. Maybe, if he asked really nicely and prefaced it with a donut, he could get their on call psychiatrist Shelly to do it.
"Am I in trouble already?" Mark asked, laughing too loudly at his paltry attempt at a joke, as if he were performing to a crowd of more than the two marshals on his doorstep.
"Is Mary home?" Charlie asked.
Mark shook his head. "She went to that interview you guys set up. I can call her though, she's got the cellphone with her." Mark turned and walked into the apartment. "Come on in. I have the number here somewhere."
Charlie shot Marshall a helpless look, but Marshall schooled his features and gave him nothing in return. These were Charlie's witnesses, he was just here so they would know who he was if there was ever trouble bad enough to require more than Charlie's presence, and because, as Britney's marshal, Marshall might be required to interact with Mark more than he would normally with another marshal's witness; a prospect he was not looking forward to.
"We actually just need you, Mark." Charlie said, stepping into the apartment after his witness. "It's about… the special request you made to the DOJ."
Mark looked totally lost. "What special request?"
"The additional matter?"
"Huh?"
Marshall ground his back molars together to keep from laughing. Certainly it would be important to the security of both Mark and Britney to be discreet about the affair, as much as that pained his sense of justice, but Mary was demonstrably absent and, for the sake of efficiency, he stepped in. "Your girlfriend."
Charlie looked askance at Marshall, causing him to wonder if Stan had given Charlie the long version of his speech on the importance of utmost discretion in witness management and protection. He would have to pull the marshal aside at some point and explain that most witnesses were not covert ops wannabes and code words really only worked if they were agreed upon in advance. Most of the time attempts at subtlety ended up standing out tenfold compared to straight forward words spoken in an undertone.
"Britney?" Mark still looked confused.
Marshall had a sudden, horrible feeling that the DOJ hadn't told the Marshal Service the whole truth about these witnesses. "You did know she was entering the program?" He meant it to be a statement, but his voice twisted the last word into a question.
Charlie's eyes widened as he caught on to Marshall's suspicion. He silently thanked Stan for sending Marshall with him, this was a situation his training had not prepared him for.
"Well… yeah." Mark ran a hand back and forth over his hair. "She saw Claire get hit just like me so I figured…" He shot Charlie a helpless look.
"Britney arrived in Albuquerque this afternoon." Charlie supplied.
"But…" Mark scrunched up his eyes for a moment, as if not being able to see the room around him would help him figure this out. "What's she doing here?"
Marshall looked at his watch, it was already 4:15. Stan had said they had until 5:30, but Marshall wasn't taking any chances. "Look, we'll explain everything, but not here." He shot Charlie a significant look.
Charlie nodded. "Call Mary, tell her we needed to go over a few issues with transferring your assets and tell her you might be home late." He ordered, handing his phone to his witness.
Mark stared at the phone as if he'd forgotten what a cellphone was for several seconds before plucking it from the marshal's hand. "I don't know our number yet." Mark said, turning and fumbling through a pile of paper on the table.
"It's already dialed, just hit 'call.'" Charlie said in a calm, placating voice.
"Right, sorry." Mark jabbed at the screen and then held the phone to his ear.
Marshall rocked back on his heels, content to watch as Charlie ably handled his witness. Mark's discomfort with the news of Britney's presence in Albuquerque made Marshall second guess at least part of his assumptions about the man. Maybe Mark Sheppard wasn't a complete scumbag after all. Phil Stuart from the DOJ on the other hand… Marshall had a few choice words for the man, none of which were appropriate in polite company.
"Hey Mare, it's Mark. Look, the marshals need me to fill out some more paperwork to get our accounts transferred over."
Charlie nodded encouragingly at his witness' lie.
"I'm headed downtown with Charlie now. Not sure when I'll be home. Hope the interview went well. Love you." Mark ended the call and handed the phone back to Charlie. "Here. Now will someone please tell me what the fuck is going on?"
It took most of the ride to the Sunshine building for Charlie to explain to Mark that Britney had insisted that she and Mark be placed in the same city or she wouldn't testify. He tactfully left out the fact that the DOJ had led the Marshal Service to believe that Mark had been equally insistent, which Marshall personally thought was a mistake, but he kept silent; if Charlie was alright being the lightning rod for his witness' wrath, who was Marshall to judge?
When they stepped into the elevator, Marshall took charge. Now this was about his witness and it didn't matter that this was a good learning opportunity for Charlie, Marshall wasn't about to expose his witness to any potential hazards he could foresee and avoid. "Mark, before we take you in there, there are two things you need to know. One, if Britney does not sign the MOU, you and Mary will need to be relocated. Two, if she does sign, either she stays in Albuquerque or you all get relocated to separate cities. Do you understand?"
"That's blackmail." Mark said, sounding more impressed than upset.
Marshall looked at him blankly for almost a minute before responding. "No, not blackmail. Just an uncomfortable reality."
Mark looked ready to say something combative and then thought better of it. "Mary can't know."
Marshall met Mark's gaze straight on. "We're not here to judge your relationship." Even if you are a reprehensible human being. "As long as you do not violate the terns of your MOU, what you do in your personal life is your business. Our job is to keep you safe. We can only do that if you're honest with us."
Mark's eyes searched Marshall's face. "Okay."
"Okay," Marshall repeated, sliding his swipe key through the lock. He held the door for Mark and Charlie and then followed them inside.
"Ohmygod Mark!" Britney practically launched herself at the man as soon as he appeared in the conference room doorway.
He returned her hug, albeit awkwardly. Looking at Charlie over the top of her red head he asked, "Can we have a minute alone?"
Seeing a quick nod from both Stan and Marshall, Charlie nodded emphatically. "Of course, we'll be right outside when you're ready."
Mark didn't even wait for the door to click shut behind the marshals before exploding with, "What the hell are you doing here Brit?"
Marshall fought the urge to slam his head against the nearest solid object. Clearly his warning in the elevator had been too subtle. If Britney walked, or if they had to relocate three witnesses within days of their entering the program the shit storm that would rain down from the DOJ would be a nightmare, and all because one man from New Jersey couldn't keep his dick in his pants. Marshall didn't lose his cool often, but this case was pushing him to the edge of his self-control. The fact he had been against their taking these particular witnesses in the first place wasn't helping. Marshall Mann liked being right (it would probably even be fair to say he liked being right more than almost anyone else on the planet), but there was no satisfaction in being right when it meant you were up the proverbial creek without a paddle.
"What now?" Charlie asked Stan in a low voice that almost couldn't be heard over the barely muted fight going on in the conference room. From the sound of it, neither Britney nor Mark was happy that her coming had been a surprise. The marshals pretended not to hear, but it was hard to truly tune out the raised voices flowing freely from the glass walled room.
Stan shrugged. "Either she signs the MOU and Marshall gets her settled across town from the Sheppards, or she doesn't and you go pick up Mary and we start arranging to relocate all of them." He poured himself a cup of coffee and held up the pot in silent offer to the other two.
Marshall shook his head. He was too keyed up for coffee. What he wanted to know was what the fuck the DOJ had been thinking. "Did Stuart say anything about this to you when he set up the transfer?"
Stan shook his head, from the glint in his eye he was almost as pissed off as Marshall. "No. Don't worry, there will be an inquiry."
Marshal nodded, it wouldn't go anywhere, but at least if Stan filed a formal complaint no one would try and hang Charlie out to dry when this whole mess went up in flames. They might yet have a second junior marshal last longer than a year in Albuquerque.
After almost ten minutes the yelling inside the conference room decreased to quiet murmurs and then to complete silence. Marshall rose from his desk, picked up the MOU, and knocked on the door.
"We're ready," Mark called.
The marshals took their places, Marshall seated across form the couple, who now sat hand in hand with chairs pulled so closely together Marshall thought Britney may as well be sitting in Mark's lap. "Okay Britney," Marshall began without preamble. "This is how this works: if you decide to stay in Albuquerque, you need to sign the MOU and then I will help you set up a new life here with a new identity. If you choose not to enter WITSEC, or if you choose not to remain here, we will find you a new location. We will also relocate Mark as his security would be compromised if you were ever found."
Britney's kohl lined eyes were wide and she visibly tightened her hold on Mark. "I want to stay here with Mark."
"Baby, I told you—"
"Please, Mark, I'm not an idiot. I know you're still with her." Britney muttered resentfully. "But we'll still…?" she gave him a puppy-dog eyed look.
"Of course we will." Mark smiled warmly at her and leaned in for a kiss.
"Ahem," Marshall cleared his throat. "Britney, Mark needs to go back to his apartment. Charlie will make sure he has your phone number once we get you settled. Is that alright with both of you?"
After a lingering kiss that made Marshall decidedly uncomfortable, Mark stood and followed Charlie from the room. Marshall waited until the outer office door shut before flipping to page one of the MOU. If he'd been a betting man he would have wagered good money that this would not be the last time Britney had to go through the WITSEC intake process. Eventually one of two things was bound to happen: 1) Mark's wife would find out 2) Britney would get sick of waiting and, unless she was infinitely more forgiving and gracious than she appeared, all three would be heading for new homes far from Albuquerque.
A Few Weeks Later
Britney settled into Albuquerque better than Marshall had anticipated. She found a job selling clothes at an upscale boutique and soon adopted the local style. Marshall surmised that the carefully constructed hipster look she'd presented on day one was a statement of conformity not fashion. He saw her very little and Mark only once, when he'd done a security check on the apartment Britney wanted to rent a month after she entered the program. He did not meet Mark's wife Mary.
But he thought about her.
Not often. But, every now and then when he drove past Burt's Tiki Lounge or when he caught sight of a blonde whose dress or demeanor didn't quite fit the Albuquerque mould, he wondered. She was something of a puzzle, this woman who had followed her philandering husband into WITSEC and whose work at a popular dive bar didn't concern Stan McQueen one bit. Marshall liked puzzles. Or rather, he liked to solve puzzles.
Unsolved puzzles were like wrapped presents under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning, just begging to be torn open to reveal what was inside.
Six weeks after the almost calamitous intake meeting, Marshall's curiosity won out. It was a Tuesday night. Far from the busiest night of the week, but still Burt's was lively and it took several minutes for Marshall to wind his way to the bar. He told himself he just wanted a cold beer after a long day and Burt's was on the way from his final witness visit of the day to his house, but he knew he was there to see Mary.
He had to know. Was she the vacuous blond bimbo his mind had drawn up the moment he met Mark? Why did Stan send her here of all places? He'd been there less than five minutes and already he'd seen at least four phones out, snapping photos of drunken girls in full duck-face pose or of the rapidly expanding collection of empties piling up in the middle of the table, photographic evidence of a fun night on the town. If she were his witness he would have put his foot down. There were some jobs that were just a bad idea. This was one of them.
He dodged a group of thirty-something men in suits and found an empty seat at the bar. He looked to his left and caught his first sight of Mary, just coming back to the bar, an empty tray in one hand. A man standing, leaning against the bar reached out as if to grab her ass. Marshall was on his feet and three steps towards them before he even realized he had moved. Protection had become an instinct by now. But she clearly didn't need it. In no time flat she'd grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it – not far enough to break it, but far enough to show she knew how and she was willing to. Marshall stood there, barely five feet away, frozen. She didn't need him to intervene, and yet the chivalrous impulse ran strong and he couldn't bring himself to stand down while the pervert was still within grabbing distance.
Mary had noticed his movement. Their eyes locked and she shot him a sardonic smile as she released the other man's wrist. His breath caught in his chest.
She was not what he had expected. Well… she was blonde. But that was the only mental box she checked. She was older for one thing. Not older than Mark, but she had at least five years on Britney, probably closer to ten. She was stunning. There was no denying that. She just didn't seem like Mark's type.
Or rather… she made Britney look like a cheap, brightly painted, badly made knock off and Marshall couldn't understand for a second why any man who had this woman would go for a Britney on the side. She was spectacular.
His eyes followed her as she rounded the bar and came up to him. "What can I get you?" she asked, all business but for the amused twinkle in her eye.
"Uh..." Marshall stammered. He'd suddenly forgotten every drink he knew. "Scotch. Neat." He managed after a moment.
"On the house." She said, pouring an ounce into a glass and setting it in front of him. "Although, for the record, I don't need backup."
"Noted." Marshall said, raising the glass in a salute before taking a generous swallow. She'd given him the good stuff. The peaty taste bloomed on his tongue and he smiled in appreciation, but Mary had already moved on to the next customer and didn't see.
He took his time with the drink, tracking Mary's every move without seeming to look at her at all. He knew how to be subtle when he wanted to be. Within five minutes he thought he knew why Stan had called in this particular favour. She wasn't sweet, or even polite, to most of the patrons. Yet he watched her cut one man off and part another from his keys without so much as breaking a sweat.
He was even more impressed a moment later. A young woman held up her camera phone to take a self-photo in front of the bar, Mary in the background. "A self-portrait at a bar. Do you have any friends?" Mary snapped, snatching the phone from the girl's fingers. "How do you work this thing?" Within two minutes the girl had her photo and her beer and was on her way.
Satisfied that this was one witness who could take care of herself, Marshall let his eyes wander over the rest of the bar. He hadn't been in Burt's in years, but a quick survey told him not much had changed. A local three man band was setting up on a low stage at one end of the bar. The space between was packed with people in their twenties and thirties crowded around small round tables, drinking beer from the bottle, or doing shots. No fruity, blended, garnished drinks here.
"Drinking alone?" Mary's voice brought his attention back to the bar.
He smiled and lied easily, "long day at the office."
She held up the scotch bottle and he nodded, pushing the glad towards her. "What office would that be?"
"The courthouse." Marshall said, supplying his usual cover story. At some point Mary would meet him in his capacity as a WITSEC inspector, but he wasn't about to announce to an entire bar something he didn't even tell his closest friends.
"Lawyer?" Her voice was noticeably cooler.
Marshall shook his head. "Nothing that interesting I'm afraid. US Marshal."
"That's not interesting?"
He shrugged. "How about you? What's that accent?"
Her brow furrowed and he could almost see the wheels churning, as if she were mentally reciting their entire conversation back, trying to find something she hadn't heard before. "I don't have an accent."
"East coast." Marshall said. "New York? State not the city right?"
When she nodded he felt a surge of pride in her. It wasn't right, and they both knew it, but she knew well enough not to give away her background. More than that, she kept the lie close enough to the truth that no one who didn't already know where she was from would even have been the wiser. Yes, she was absolutely spectacular. And Mark Sheppard was an idiot.
The words came out of his mouth before he could think better of it. "Would you like to have coffee with me? Tonight, after your shift?"
Her hands stopped straightening the glassware in front of her and her eyes locked with his. "That would be a bad idea."
"Why would that be a bad idea?" He pressed, despite the voice of reason screaming in his head that this was a bad idea, a very bad idea, perhaps the worst idea he had ever had. But there was another voice, quiet but insistent, that told him if he walked away from her tonight without even trying he would regret it.
She hadn't looked away.
"Have coffee with me."
There was something like regret in her expression. "I'm married."
"Happily?" Marshall Ezekiel Mann! What is wrong with you? The screaming voice of protest in his mind was starting to sound a lot like his mother. He ignored it.
She still hadn't looked away. "I-I can't. I'm sorry." She looked down, severing their eye contact. "Tony'll get your bill when you're ready." She muttered before turning and walking to the other end of the bar.
Marshall watched her go, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Incredible.
That night Marshall couldn't fall asleep, his mind was too busy; it was full of Mary Sheppard. He tried all the usual tricks such. Finally he resorted to making a list of the reasons why he shouldn't be thinking about her, but for every point his brain immediately conjured a counter until he was hopelessly confused. His heart wanted her, and his mind was getting really good at coming up with justifications. She's married. So? He's a cheater. She said no. She did the right thing. Just like you usually do. And where has that gotten you? And on the endless debate went. Sometimes it circled around Mark and Britney. Maybe Mary knows. No, she can't. Maybe she suspects? So? So… if you were to—No! He couldn't tell her, no matter how tempting. Even if she found out on her own, it would be no good for him, for any future them. If she left Mark she would be relocated. It was too big a security risk otherwise.
He never should have gone to see her. Once again curiosity had lured this cat into a very dangerous trap and he couldn't see a way out. At least not one that didn't make him miserable. The obvious way out was to never see Mary again, but for all his self-control, and he had a lot, he didn't think he could manage that. Not now that he had met her. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know her, in more than the biblical sense of the word, though he wanted that too. But she was a witness; she was a married woman; she was in hiding, trying to start a new life based on necessary lies. She could never give him what he wanted; he didn't care. He felt alive in a way he had never felt before. He wasn't giving that up without a fight.
He finally fell asleep wondering where on earth the chivalrous, principled son of Seth and Janice Mann had gone. Because Marshall was absolutely certain of one thing: he wasn't done with Mary Sheppard, not by a long shot.
o o o
The first time Marshall ran into Mary at Pro's Ranch Market was a coincidence. His usual store was out of the really good hot sauce and, after striking out at Walmart (which did not surprise him) and at Valley La Montanita Co-op (which did), he found himself on one knee in the middle if an aisle at Pro's fumbling for the last bottle of 'hot' which was half hidden at the very back of the shelf behind a dozen bottles of 'mild.' It was not the most dignified moment if his life. It was absolutely not the moment he would have chosen to have Mary round the corner, distracted by a message she was typing with one hand in her Blackberry, and nearly run him over with her cart. Then again, he was happy enough to see her he didn't mind the bruise he was sure was already blooming on his hip from the sharp corner of the grocery cart.
"Hello again." He said looking up at her with a broad smile.
Mary tilted her head to one side. "Have we met?"
Feeling foolish and a little bit hurt that she didn't recognize him when he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since they'd met a week earlier, Marshall rose to his feet. He was about to explain when Mark rounded the corner, a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a bag of frozen peas in the other.
If it hadn't been such a stark reminder of how very, very wrong his repeated thoughts about Mary were, Marshall might have seen the humour in the almost identical please-don't-say-anything-in-front-of-my-spouse expressions both Sheppards wore. As it was he mumbled polite, "sorry, my fault," and, hot sauce in hand, made a straight line for the cash register.
Three days later when he ran out of milk, Marshall went straight to Pro's Ranch Market. He told himself it was their reasonable prices and local produce, but he knew that was a lie. He was hoping, with a little luck on his side, he might run into her again. Maybe next time she would be doing her shopping solo.
Two Weeks Later
Marshall had never thought of himself as the stalking kind. He was good at following people, but that was part of his job. What was not part of his job was a new twice daily Broadway Boulevard Starbucks habit or the fact he now bought all his groceries at Pro's Ranch Market. He'd stayed away from Burt's but it would seem that was the limit of his control. Other than the one awkward encounter two weeks earlier, he had only managed to catch a few glimpses of the intriguing blonde. He'd seen her climbing onto a bus outside Starbucks just as he was getting out of his SUV and twice he thought he'd seen her loading groceries into the back of a blue Ford Focus in the Pro's Ranch Market parking lot.
He knew it was wrong. He told himself time and time again that she was married and a witness and, by all codes of honor, ethics, and common sense, off limits, but then the next morning he would find himself pulling into the Starbucks parking lot again, almost against his will.
I just want to talk to her. He told the nagging voice in his head. She could be a danger to my witness, I need to get to know her. The steady stream of lies and justification did little to ease his guilt, but he could no more stop them than he could put her out of his head. So, as he climbed out of his SUV and cast his eyes around for a blue Ford Focus, he continued to inner dialogue explaining how keeping an eye on the wife of his witness' boyfriend was actually for the good of all of them.
After weeks with only a few stolen glimpses, Marshall almost didn't believe his eyes. There she was, standing at the back of the line, one hip tilted out, both hands shoved in her back pockets as she waited for a middle aged couple in front of her to decipher the apparently foreign-to-them Starbuck sizing system.
Taking a deep, steadying breath Marshall stopped a polite distance behind her and said, "Hello."
She turned slowly, as if not sure if he was talking to her. When she saw him she gave him a tight little smile. "Hi. You're everywhere aren't you?"
Marshall's eyebrows raised. "Am I?"
She shrugged, "Burt's, Pro's Market, here. For a good sized city it feels a little small townish." She said 'small town' like it was a dirty word.
Marshall laughed. "I guess you're right. Albuquerque is no Manhattan."
"Obviously," Mary muttered snarkily.
"We actually like to get to know our neighbours here." Marshall continued as if she hadn't said anything. "Often over coffee and pie. We have good pie here."
Mary was saved from responding as the couple in front of her finally moved on and the Barista asked "What can I get you?"
Mary placed her order, but before she could pay Marshall stepped up beside her. "This one's on me." He said to her in an undertone. "And I'd love a tall blonde." He said to the barista, handing her his Starbucks card.
Mary didn't say anything while they waited for the young woman to pour their coffees. Marshall too was silent, but his mind was working overtime. He knew, though he couldn't have said quite how, that the moment she had her coffee in hand Mary would make and excuse to flee. He thought he made her nervous, and the irony of making the woman who had so discombobulated him nervous would have made him laugh, had he not been desperate to get to know her better. He wanted to know everything about her; he wanted her to know everything about him. It was ridiculous of course. Even if Mark hadn't been in the picture, neither of them could ever really tell the whole truth. But reality didn't diminish desire.
They received their coffees and, right on cue, Mary turned to him with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, I have to go." She raised her coffee cup slightly. "Um... thanks."
He smiled. "If you're free tonight, you can let me buy you a piece of pie to make up for it."
"I thought we'd been over this." She said, her face hardening. "I'm married."
"Yeah, you mentioned that. But you never did answer my other question."
"What question?"
"Are you happy?"
"Does it matter?" She asked, sounding exasperated.
Marshall had to work hard to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Of course it matters." Though there was a secret part of him which thrilled at the idea that she and Mark might not be happy together, that she didn't love Mark, that she might be able to one day love Marshall, most of him cared enough about people in general, and this woman in particular, to want her to be happy – no matter how serious a blight her happiness might be to his own.
"Why?" Mary tilted her head to one side, looking genuinely confused why this stranger cared about her state of happiness.
He answered with the simple truth. "I think you deserve to be happy."
"And you can make me happy?" She asked, skepticism in every line of her face. Clearly she thought this was just a pick up line.
It wasn't a pick up line, or, rather, it was a pick up line and so much more. Marshall looked her straight in the eye and answered without a trace of teasing or irony. "Yes." And he believed it. Deep in his gut, where all the instincts which made him a fantastic marshal lived, he felt it. It was as if he had been waiting for her. Even when it was awkward, which all of their encounters really had been so far, it felt right, like a missing piece had snapped into place. It was as if he had been in Plato's cave, watching the shadows dance across the wall and calling it life. Now he was out in the open air, and even if the sun burnt his unaccustomed eyes, he couldn't go back inside; he didn't want to.
"Right." She said in a voice that indicated she thought he was crazy. "It's been… interesting seeing you..?"
"Marshall." He supplied.
"Marshall the marshal?" Her eyebrows rose and her lips twitched with repressed laughter.
"Afraid so."
"Well, goodbye marshal Marshall." She smiled a polite sort of smile that didn't reach her eyes.
He didn't want her to go. "Do you always do the right thing?"
She snorted with laughter. "Does anyone?"
"No," he admitted. "But you try, don't you."
"I guess."
"Me too." He said, adding in a thoughtful tone, "It's exhausting isn't it?"
She looked confused again, but she wasn't walking away and Marshall counted that a victory.
"Maybe we should stop trying," he continued. "Just once, do the wrong thing."
"And then what?" Mary's hand was on the door, ready to push it open at any moment, but right now she was listening.
Marshall wished he was more eloquent, that he'd thought this one through. With all the useless knowledge in his head he should have had a perfect fact to throw her way right now, but his usually trusty mind was a complete blank. He shrugged helplessly. "Anything we want."
"And what is it you think I want?" She seemed genuinely curious.
Marshall thought for a moment before saying, "You want what everybody wants: a love that consumes you, passion, adventure and maybe even a little danger."
Mary laughed, but it sounded forced and there was a spark of something in her eyes that hadn't been there before. Marshall wanted to call it interest, but he might have been imagining it. "Is that what everybody wants? And here most of us ants are running around trying to get rich and famous."
"Where would you want to go?"
"What?"
"If you and I went on a date," Marshall clarified, realizing his non-sequitur probably hadn't made any sense outside of his brain; something about this woman was turning his sharp mind to mush, "where would you want to go?"
"I don't…" She paused, seemed to steel herself and the said in a rush, "Standard Diner, seven-thirty." Before Marshall could say a word she turned, pushed open the door, and disappeared out into the street.
Marshall didn't move until someone behind him cleared their throat to get his attention. He stepped out of the woman's way with a distracted apology. His mind was busy with other things: namely all the reasons he shouldn't go to the Standard Diner that night at seven-thirty warring with all the reasons he knew he would.
A/N: This story was written for lunar_penguin, my sometimes writing partner, always friend. You and Mr. Penguin are going to have an amazing life together; you're the Mary to his Marshall (the feisty goddess of his nerd kingdom). Congratulations my darling!
The story is complete, except for some last minute edits, so updates will be speedy.
Please review :)