Spoilers for late S4. Inspired by a prompt from the comment-fic community on LJ. See prompt at the end due to spoilers.
"I swear there's a fucking alien in there," I griped, glaring down at my pregnant stomach with disdain.
Marshall chuckled, but bit his lip. I glanced over at him, bracing myself for some Encyclopedia Mann article on alien conspiracies, but nothing came. Right. I stuck a gun in his face last time he did that. Of course the Gospel According to Marshall was going to stay on the shelf in light of that delightful moment.
I thought about offering him an explanation, but then the baby spoke up first, delivering a kidney shot with disturbing fucking accuracy. It wasn't the first and all that practice was apparently turning it into a prize fighter.
Fuck. I'm so sick of this shit.
I gave the non-alcoholic cup of crushed ice coated in strawberry margarita mix a shot only to find that my stomach was having none of that. Apparently last week's favorite was no longer doing the trick. My stomach gurgled and I couldn't stop the rant that shot out – "Goddamnit. You said you wanted the strawberry margaritas. It's not my fault you can't hold your damn liquor. When you finally grow a pair, we'll get you the real stuff if you'll just leave my insides alone."
Marshall was fucking grinning. I didn't even have to look up from my gut to know it. But I looked anyway and watched that lopsided smirk lean in. "You know, with that kind of language, I'm pretty sure that thing is going to come out shooting."
"And it's gonna take you out first for that crap," I retorted, satisfied when he ducked his head and pretended to be fascinated by that rice concoction on his plate.
Sure, I felt a bit bad for treating him like crap. But no one else bothered to humor me when the baby decided to possess my body like some sort of soul-sucking demon. Hell, he was being far more tolerant than I deserved considering only a few hours ago the baby had me pulling my gun on him.
Letting out a sigh, I gave the enchiladas in front of me a try, determined to squelch the more violent tendencies of my fetus. To my surprise, the enchiladas tasted delicious – salty, spicy, warm – they settled into my stomach and I could almost see the little spawn curling up in a ball like a sleeping cat. Apparently it's into beef and cheese tonight. Go fucking figure.
So I fed the little monster. It bought me (and Marshall) a few minutes of peace. The world almost felt normal (unless you count the fact that my breasts feel about as sexy as dumbbells) until I felt Marshall looking at me. For the first time in ages, the baby didn't immediately leap into defense mode. Instead, I felt my head swim with warmth, as comforting and pleasant as a big glass of red wine at the end of a shitty day. I felt soft and before I knew it, I was giving him a half-there smile.
Ah, the good hormones.
When Marshall's expression turned into one of his goofy-ass grins, I almost laughed when I felt the little baby's pulse throbbing in my gut, like some sort of love-struck idiot. "Now you like him," I muttered under my breath, glancing down at my stomach for a moment.
And just like that, I felt my eyes get all misty and I blinked, trying to push them back. No such luck.
To his credit, Marshall didn't say anything. If he had, we probably would have been back to the gun.
Maybe that would have been easier. Instead, he reached a hand out to cover my own, squeezing it gently until I gave in to the desire to lean on him. My cheek landed on his shoulder, and his free hand reached over to half-hold me by my shoulder. Oh yeah, definitely the good stuff.
I'm not sure if it was me, or the baby talking, but the words babbled out of me then. "I'm so tired, Marshall. I don't know if I can do this." My voice sounded broken and I willed myself to shut the hell up, but not a fucking chance. He let go of my hand and slid his arm around my back, fully encircling me in his arms. I stared down at my enchiladas and he whispered something that seemed encouraging that I didn't really hear.
"It's not just the food thing. Not that having everything taste like crap isn't bad enough. I mean, my boobs hurt, I haven't seen my feet in weeks, I've got pains and cramps I can't even explain to my doctor, and I'm fairly certain that my fetus is ordering hits from the womb. Never mind that I've seen the inside of every bathroom from here to Santa Fe…"
He coughed then, probably choking back a laugh. Smart Mann.
"I'd like to help you, you know. Anything you need," he offered, his lips somewhere in the vicinity of just north of my bra strap on my shoulder, warm breath swirling against my neck. He let himself have a tiny chuckle as he added, "If it will sooth the little monster, I might even be willing to rub your feet."
Damn it. Tears. Actual fucking tears all because Marshall Fucking Mann offered to maybe rub my feet in some theoretical world.
"You're only saying that because I threatened to shoot you," I replied, turning red at the amount of sniffling it took to get the words out.
His mouth moved again, closer to my neck. He was making some sort of humming sound that was as confounding as it was arousing. I could almost feel the vibrations of his voice on my skin as he joked, "The safety was on. Alien baby or no, I know you'll keep me safe."
The arm around my back tightened, bringing that hand down to my waist, while his other one managed to touch my cheek, making me look into his eyes. If we hadn't been at a bar, me barely balanced on a bar stool with random strangers staring, I might have just climbed into his lap for that. "I trust you with everything," Marshall whispered, his lips so close to mine that I couldn't even see them.
My stomach did a somersault and I swallowed hard, his face way too close to focus. Apparently the baby agreed and found a new target for its kung-fu moves – my bladder. Wincing, I bent forward, feeling Marshall pull back instantly. Forcing deep slow breaths, I finally managed to open my eyes, lifting my head to find him back in his seat.
Pushing back my hair, I grabbed at my margarita, gulping it down without thinking. And immediately sputtered it back up, accidentally splattering some on Marshall.
He wiped away the icy red concoction with a tired look in his eyes and I felt the baby take back the reins.
"That sounds like a terrific plan. Trust the hormonal pregnant woman who's playing puppet to the psychotic fetus. I can't even make up my own mind about what flavor of artificially flavored, non-alcoholic beverage I want. Much less differentiate between right and wrong."
"Something tells me that wouldn't hold up in court…" he pointed out flatly, teasing his beer past my nose before taking a swig.
What I wouldn't give for an actual god damn drink about now. But something tells me that foot rub might just be better.
Prompt: In Plain Sight, Pregnant!Mary/Marshall, "I trust you with everything"