Disclaimer: Of course they're not mine, which is good because I'd have made them do stuff like this, and ruined the whole show, by halfway through season one.
Summary: Marshall investigates an odd noise on his porch at night. What he discovers is exactly what he expected, and yet, he never saw it coming. Spoilers up to Fish or Cut Betta, but we'll likely go AU real fast. WARNING: Non-descriptive references to child abuse including rape.
We're flying without a beta-reader, so all errors are mine. I realize that most writers spell Marshall's nickname for Mary as "Mare" but I can't do that, because I feel like I'm referring to a horse. So it's "Mer" in this tale. I have some idea of where I'm going with this, but not a whole ton, so I welcome any requests or suggestions you may have. And, for added fun, this is my first romance. Ever. I welcome feedback on how well I do THAT, since I have an arranged marriage (archaic, I know, but it works fine for me) and thus, my entire education on dating, I got from television.
PLEASE NOTE: I'm not going to be real explicit in the discussion of child sexual abuse in this work, but it will be mentioned, and referenced, and the related issues will be mentioned, probably frequently. I'm marking it T, but if you think it ought to be bumped up a notch, or if you think I need to add anything to my warning, please let me know. I'm not always real good at gauging these things. I also make reference to the fact that children are more likely to be abused by their mother's live-in boyfriend than by their own biologically-related family members. I'm not trying to stereotype, and I've met a lot of guys who are really awesome with the kids, whether or not they're from a previous relationship. But I know that my friends who work in law enforcement are well aware of the high-risk nature of such a living arrangement, and I figure Mary and Marshall aren't going to be an exception to that... especially Mary, with her cynical perspective.
The clock was quickly closing in on eleven when he paused, beer bottle in midair, slowly turning his head to listen more carefully, lanky fingers blindly grasping the remote and lowering the television volume with silent precision. Among the patter of moderately heavy rain, among the gunfire in his Korean War documentary, he thought he heard something else, something like scuffling, as if the neighbor's obnoxious cats were fighting on his porch again. On a clear night, he might not have given the noise a second thought, but in the rain, well... for one thing, he didn't think the cats were even willing to go out in the rain, and for another, if they were fighting loud enough to be heard over the rain and the Korean War both, there would be yowling. So, he waited warily, mentally taking inventory of the weapons, and makeshift weapons, within easy access. A moment later, he heard it again, the definite sound of something, or someone, moving about at his front door. He frowned in confusion as the beer found its way to the end table. It sounded like whoever was out there, was having some sort of fight with the low wall separating his little garden from the rest of the front yard.
His hand snaked out and wrapped itself around his gun as he moved quietly, coming up on the front door from as much of a sideways angle as he could manage in the respectably modest home. When he bought the place, he'd liked the privacy afforded by the small foyer, not allowing visitors to see more than a few feet into the house from the doorway, but sometimes he wished for just a little more elbow room. Carefully, he pinched one slat of the blinds covering the narrow window next to the door, lifting it just enough to peer through the slit. A shadow played on the wall, revealing its owner pacing back and forth in the garden just beyond the porch, kicking periodically at something, probably the aforementioned low wall. In the space of a heartbeat, he recognized the shadow. Playing it safe, though, he kept the gun in one hand, pointed at the floor, double-checking that the safety was, in fact, still on. He couldn't picture any reason for his visitor to be pacing, or beating the crap out of his house. He eased the deadbolt to its unlocked position, and swung the door open, knowing its squeak would give away his position, but unwilling to give up the only shield he had, until he had assessed the situation. Fortunately for Marshall, the situation pretty much assessed itself as soon as the first creak of his front door echoed in the small vestibule of a porch. Mary froze in place momentarily before turning her head to meet his gaze. Caught, she turned to face him, and stepped under the porch roof, out of the rain. Only now did Marshall set down his gun on the side table by the door, next to the mail he'd been meaning to sort and deal with.
"Hi," he said, more a question than a greeting. She was already barreling towards the doorway, and he stepped back to allow her to enter. He continued to wait for her to say something, do something, as she stood on the tiled floor, looking half-drowned as the growing puddle at her feet began to creep toward the carpeted hallway. She obviously wasn't going to speak just yet. "Okay, how about you stay right here, and I'll get you a towel," he said, and she nodded. "... or twenty," he muttered, as he took three long strides to the linen closet in the hall. A towel for her body, one for the floor, and one for her hair. That ought to do, for now.
He took the stack of linens back to the foyer, where she still stood as he'd left her. Of all the weird things Mary had done over the years, this was definitely new, he mused, as he unfolded the first towel, and lay it gently over her hair, taking just a moment to dry some hair. She stood still and allowed him to open the next towel out and wrap it around her shoulders, moving only to pick her feet up as he bent over and pulled her sneakers off, then nudged her now-bare feet to stand on the third towel. As he stood back to his full height, fixing to ask her what was going on, he suddenly realized he'd seen something else out of place on the porch. Opening the door again, he reached out to grab an overnight bag that stood quietly beneath the doorbell. Definitely new, he thought as he brought the bag inside and set it gently in the carpeted hall, well away from the damp floor.
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, trying a different approach, since "hi" had been an utter failure. Recognition flickered on her face, and she finally seemed to actually see him, instead of just meeting his gaze with a vacant stare of her own.
"Water, maybe," she answered. Well, she sounded like her usual strong self, at least.
"Sure you don't want a beer?" Marshall asked, as he turned towards the kitchen. Mary finally moved, following him. He turned his head just enough to see her shake hers.
"Not a good idea. I've already had enough to drink tonight." Marshall almost laughed at that. Most people wouldn't cut themselves off until they were at least slurring their words. Given her mother's problems, he wasn't surprised that she'd be careful to cut herself off after a drink or three, but it still struck him as incongruous with the driven, passionate woman he knew, who never stopped until the horse was not only dead and beaten, but dismembered too. He presented her with a glass of water, then grabbed his own beer and returned to stand in the kitchen to watch his still-soggy partner. He was getting tired of observing, but this was so completely outside the realm of normal that he wasn't yet sure how to proceed. He could sense that it wasn't the time for inane trivia, but he didn't have any other ideas, either.
"So what brings you to my humble abode?" Marshall asked after a moment's thought. Mary continued to sip her water, apparently having a staring contest at the sink just to his left. "Mary?" he prompted after what seemed like more than enough time for her to think up a convincing lie, if she had been planning to. She heaved a sigh.
"Tell anyone else about this, and I'll shoot you with your own gun," she spat. Anger, okay... he wasn't thrilled with anger, but at least it was something. Her gaze fell to the floor as she took another sip, and a deep breath. Anger and shame... the plot thickens. Still, he waited for her answer. "Nightmares," she finally muttered. Marshall blinked. Nightmares? Seriously? All their years together, all she'd been put through, and she thought he didn't already assume she had nightmares at times? His mind immediately launched into the variety of reasons that nightmares were normal, but she put a hand up before he could form a word.
"Is there any chance I could run a shower, and put on some dry clothes, before you subject me to a lecture on the causes of nightmares?" she asked, as she set her glass down on the counter she'd been leaning against. Marshall put up a hand, and half-bowed, half-nodded his acceptance of her request. Uncharacteristically quiet, she nearly sprinted for the bathroom, grabbing her bag on the way. Marshall returned to his couch, watching whatever show had come on in the few minutes that he'd been gone, sipping more slowly at his beer. He'd been thinking of grabbing another one before heading to bed, but now he was glad he hadn't followed through on that. Whatever was going on in his partner's head had to be pretty serious for her to go ten whole minutes without flinging some sort of insult.
He turned the TV volume lower still when he heard the shower turn off. A few minutes later, Mary emerged from the hall, folding herself into the opposite corner of the couch. Marshall made full use of the opportunity to study her. She was beautiful with her damp hair pulled into a ponytail, clad in soft pink pajamas and furry blue slipper socks. Then again, she'd been beautiful out in the rain, staring vacantly towards him. And as a shadow on the wall, fighting demons only she could see or feel. He'd once told a witness that the art of catching somebody you want is to run away, and make the target of your affections chase you instead. Why was it, he wondered as he stretched his legs out to invade her space, that he could barely follow his own good advice.
"Nightmares," Marshall finally said aloud, after he'd had about all the silence he could take from her. She nodded once in reply. Embarrassment joined the anger and shame that continued to radiate from somewhere within her being. "Anything else to go with that, maybe what they're about..?" he pressed. That got a huge sigh out of her, as if she'd been holding her breath for half the night.
"Being kidnapped, being killed, nearly killed, waking up right as I'm being killed, watching my family get killed, dying in a bomb blast, constantly running away from predators, but never getting any further away..." Mary's voice hitched up on the last word, and she fell silent. He knew from experience that it meant she was near some sort of change, tears, some kind of weird flashback... it always seemed to vary a little bit, but it always meant her defensive wall had broken in some place, and was teetering on the verge of collapse. He loved and hated these moments, when he could slip through her defenses and nurture her heart, but then she expected him to help rebuild the wall. Expected him to sit quietly by while she did the one thing he hated, more than anything else she ever did. Her undying strength and determination amazed him. He wished he could show her that letting some people get near her, wouldn't weaken the outer shell that protected her and her witnesses. He waited a moment before speaking.
"Well, those kinds of dreams aren't uncommon, after the kinds of things you've been through," he said quietly. Memories came into his own mind unbidden, as he sifted through the trauma that could cause such a horrible nightmare, to leave her beating up his garden wall in the rain. Talking her through saving his own life after he'd been shot. Holding her back while his witness blew up a bridge, taking himself with. Finding her in a basement, more jumpy than an injured badger, gun clasped in hands bound together by heavy chain. She had endured far too much in her life. And yet, there she sat, across from him, shaking her head.
"I've had these dreams all my life, Marshall, for as long as I can remember." Marshall stared at his partner, completely shocked by this news. Sure, in the many long drives they'd made, he'd noticed that she sometimes whimpered and frowned in her sleep, as he observed uncomfortably until she would startle awake at the slightest sound. But she'd had some tough experiences in their earliest cases. It wasn't particularly strange. But tormented by such horrifying nightmares for all her life? The only cause that remotely fit his friend was your average PTSD. Immediately his mind began to list all the things that could happen to a young child to cause such vivid, violent, frequent nightmares. Natural disaster... probably not. Witnessing a violent crime, such as murder... well, maybe, but it wasn't likely. Child neglect, well that was a given, but she seemed to somehow rebound and even thrive as a result of that situation. Abandonment by her father. But the two most common, child abuse and rape, were absent from her past, he tho-- oh. Oh God. Suddenly Marshall regretted even having the one beer. It felt like it had grown teeth and eaten through his stomach as realization hit. Had his Mary been subjected to far more horror than she'd ever shared with anyone? Was he supposed to ask these things? She'd always volunteered information in the past, or allowed her pain to leak out to the point that he didn't need to be told, to understand. Peering into her eyes, watching the way fear preyed upon the twinkle of wry sarcasm he usually found there, before it moved on to stalk determination, strength, and her undying trust in her partner, he came to two realizations. He wasn't asking questions because he felt certain he didn't want to know the answers. But Mary needed him to to ask, to know, and to stand guard by the collapsed fortress wall that tonight, failed to protect her heart. Setting the now-warm beer down, Marshall pulled his feet back from his partner just a little bit, giving her just a little space.
"I'm no psychologist, but usually chronic nightmares are related to PTSD." He let the statement hang in the air between them. Mary nodded. "Mary..." he began, then stopped, suddenly uncertain. He watched her face develop into a sort of cringe that most people would take for a glare, but he recognized it as the deep pain that had been known to push her to tears on rare occasion. She knew where he was going, and her choice to sit there and wait for it, was all the permission she would give... all the permission he needed.
"Mer, what happened when you were young, to cause this?" Marshall was surprised he managed to pull off an even tone of voice when he felt so completely unsure of everything. He was even more surprised by the tears that slid down his partner's cheeks, as if the dam had burst all at once. Usually it took a little more than an open-ended question to push her to that point.
Ever the gentle giant to her exotic animal routine, Marshall rose slightly off the couch, enough to shift himself closer to the middle as he stretched one hand out towards her, not sure she wanted his comfort, but ready to give it just the same. To his relief, she responded almost instantly, untangling her limbs from one another and launching herself into his offered embrace. Marshall made full use of strength to slide back to his place at the corner of the sofa, dragging his friend along with, until the two were sitting with their legs sprawled across the entire couch, him with his back resting against the arm of the sofa, her turned sideways with her face buried somewhere in the space between his chest and the back of the sofa, to his right. He rubbed her arm gently with one hand, as the other found its way to the mass of cold, damp hair that was leaving wet spots against his shirt. They sat quietly for several minutes until Mary's cries quieted to occasional moans. Marshall was entirely sure he didn't want to say anything more, but there really wasn't another option on the table.
"Mary..?" he ventured timidly, hoping she would take the reins. She took a couple deep breaths, pressing herself more fully into his protective embrace in the process.
"They started when I was... I don't know, eight or so." Marshall struggled, under the stress, to work the basic math.
"Maybe a year or so after your father left." She nodded. "What happened after your dad left?" He knew about her mother's drinking, about the young girl stuck with the task of taking care of the family that should have been tending her needs, but he realized suddenly, with a deep sense of foreboding, that while he knew the key players in his partner's ongoing family drama, he had no idea what happened. Mary, for her part, shrugged in answer to the question.
"Mom did like so many single mothers do, when they have no education and no real job opportunities. She started dating a guy she'd met at a bar, and her boyfriend moved in with us after a few weeks. Once that relationship fizzled, maybe six or eight months later. He left one day, screaming about her being an alcoholic, because, you know, he didn't notice that when he picked her up at a bar. So she sulked for a day or two, then picked up the pieces, and went to AA. And when the eviction notice came, because she wasn't paying rent, we moved in with that boyfriend. And so it goes, until one day, the mother's kids are old enough to work part-time and contribute, and then next thing you know, she moves in and I'm still stuck picking up the tab."
"Mary..." She jerked her head up when she heard the way Marshall said her name. It reminded her of the tone he'd used when he'd been shot, and was trying – and utterly failing, by the way – to hide his pain. She hadn't wanted to actually tell him what started the nightmares, but when she looked up and saw him, eyes shut, the agony subtle but unmistakeable on his face... no, they had to quit beating around the bush. Otherwise he was going to start trying to be overprotective and treat her weird, and basically let it screw with his head until the last moment of recorded time. She just wasn't entirely sure he was ready to hear, just yet.
"Go ahead, Marshall," she replied. "Ask." The pain and exhaustion were evident in her own rough voice, she knew. But it was going to sit there like a bandage until somebody pulled themselves together and ripped it off. Marshall rewarded her nerve with a sigh of his own, then another. She watched as his mouth moved slightly, practicing words that were so simple, and yet so painfully hard to say aloud, before his low, rough, worry-laced voice broke the silence.
"Oh, Mary... what did your mom's boyfriend do to you?"
Yeah, I know, it's an evil place to leave you hanging. Not to worry, though, the next couple chapters are coming along nicely. They're just not quite ready for prime time, yet! This is my first IPS work, so I welcome advice on making them more in-character (something I often struggle with), and all that good stuff. Thanks for reading!