I'm excited to present my first full length In Plain Sight story! This comes after a marathon session of the first three seasons. It's set in its own universe, where Norah doesn't exist, but the events of Trojan Horst did happen (there are spoilers for this ep). I'm trying something new and outside of my element, so I'm a bit nervous. Before each chapter starts, there will be a clip of a song to sort of set the tone. For the first chapter, I chose Rob Thomas' song, Ever The Same. I think I've rambled on long enough. Enjoy, everybody!

Disclaimer: Not mine!

IPSIPSIPSIPSIPS

Just let me hold you

While you're falling apart

Just let me hold you

While we both fall down

-Rob Thomas, Ever The Same

Mary Shannon always hated attending funerals.

The first funeral she ever went to, she was seven years old. She remembered a lot of weeping and the pale face of the woman in the box at the front of the room. She didn't really remember Aunt Lydia, but her mother, always so dramatic, was almost hysterical. So Mary had focused on taking care of her baby sister, as she always did whenever she was concerned or things were out of her control. Even at the tender age of seven, she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She was brought back to the present by a gentle nudge to her side.

Marshall Mann, her partner and best friend, removed his dark sunglasses so that she could see his crystal clear cerulean eyes. He disliked funerals almost as much as she did, especially when it was the funeral of a fellow marshal.

To her left, their boss, Stan McQueen, stood with a solemn expression on his face. His arms were at his sides, and the lines on his face were even more prominent. Marshal Cheryl Johnson had been killed in a drive by shooting, leaving behind a grief-stricken husband and three small children. At the moment, Matthew Johnson stood across from Stan and his marshals, not even bothering to hide the tears that rolled down his cheeks. His oldest son, eight year old Ryan, stood by his father, trying his best to be brave. The hearts of every marshal in attendance went out to them. It was always terrible when they buried one of their own, but when it was something like this, it made the blood of every marshal and former marshal boil. Whoever did this would pay, and they would likely pay with their own blood.

Mary touched her arm against her partner's without thinking. She was a strong woman and refused help from anyone. Anyone except Marshall. Through their years as partners, their relationship had evolved past a working one, past friendship. Somewhere along the way, through shootings, kidnappings, calls at three in the morning and even nightmares and sleepless nights, she had lost her ability to define just what they had. She would never admit it, but she needed him more than she had ever needed anyone in her life. She hated feeling dependent, vulnerable, any emotion that could be construed as a weakness. She hated it. But with him, it wasn't being weak. She could completely fall apart (not that she would ever let herself) and he would be right there, waiting with open arms and that patient, 'I'm here for you' smile. She loved him and hated him for it all at once. But more than anything, she loved him.

When Mary's arm came into contact with his, Marshall slipped his arm behind her and settled his large hand on the small of her back. He thrived on physical contact; he had his whole life. His mother claimed it was because he was born two months premature, and would only calm down with skin-to-skin contact. Even now, as an adult, he often sought contact when he was unsettled or uncertain. The first time he had done it with Mary, she had given him a look that he was certain meant she would hit him. But she hadn't, and when he did it again, she barely seemed to notice. Gradually he began doing it more often; while following her into a restaurant after holding a door open for her (she was no lady, but he was ever a gentleman), after he pulled her chair out for her (at the beginning, that had earned him some particularly evil looks). He even dared to do it when she was angry with him, and he suspected that the gesture had gotten him out of trouble with her more than once.

His thoughts came back to the present, and the casket that was being lowered into the ground before them. His heart hurt for the young family that Cheryl had unwillingly left behind. Once again, he couldn't help seeking out Mary and the assurance that her presence provided. God, what would he ever do without her? He refused to think about it. They both knew that this could have easily been one of them, that he could be burying her or she could be burying him. And the thought sent him reeling. He wasn't naïve. They weren't invincible. But the thought of lowering Mary into the ground, never seeing her face again, never hearing her call him Doofus in that annoyed yet affectionate way… His heart lurched painfully in his chest. He couldn't lose her. As much as she drove him crazy, mocked him, and generally made him want to pull his hair out, he cared about her. She was his best friend, his only friend. At least, the only friend he had that he would lay his life down for. He would walk through hell for her if she asked him to, and he would smile every step of the way.

Vaguely he heard Cheryl's mother sobbing, but something else caught his attention. Across from him, a man shifted uncomfortably, and at first Marshall chalked it up to grief. People did odd things when tragedy struck. People grieved in different ways. He knew that.

And yet, something felt off.

Mary felt his sudden restlessness, and she grazed his arm lightly with her fingers. But she didn't say a word.

Marshall glanced at his partner and offered her a brief, half-hearted smile that didn't quite touch his eyes.

On the other side of the freshly dug grave, the man shifted again.

Matthew reached down and grasped his young son's shoulder. He had known what he was getting into when he fell in love with a marshal, and he had known that there would always be the risk that one day she might not come home. But Cheryl loved her job, and once they were married, he never had the heart to ask her to give it up. It was as much a part of her as he was, and he didn't want to change her. Now he was a widower, and he had to find a way to go on without her, to raise their children, the only parts of her that he had left.

Suddenly something felt off to Marshall, and he couldn't help looking around the somber group that surrounded the grave. As a marshal, he had to trust his instincts. And right now, his instincts were screaming that something was very, very wrong.

Mary couldn't help noticing the way that Marshall suddenly stiffened, and she attributed it to him finally realizing their own vulnerability to harm. She had realized it long ago, the day he was shot while they transported a jackass witness who turned out to be the actual source of all the attacks. She had hid her concern for Marshall beneath a layer of aggression that bordered on rage directed toward that little weasel who had ultimately been responsible for Marshall's injury. She had protected him as best as she could, and when she had finally gotten him to safety, she had finally let a few tears fall. But they paled in comparison to the tears that came when she was finally allowed to see him. She had cajoled, begged, and eventually threatened the nurses until they finally let her into his I.C.U. room just after he was brought back from surgery. Stan had tried to reason with her, but that hadn't mattered to her. All that mattered at that moment was Marshall, and how small and fragile he looked in that hospital bed. It was in that moment that she had been cruelly reminded how very mortal they were. If Marshall could be hurt this badly, anyone could. She had spent that entire first night just watching over him and clinging to his hand like a lifeline, willing her strength into him. By the next morning, his doctors had been confident that he would make a full recovery. But he very easily could have slipped away as she held his hand. It could have been her standing over Marshall's grave, like Matthew now stood over his wife's. Her heart twisted violently in her chest at the thought.

Breathe…

Marshall felt it before he heard it, and all sense of protocol and training fled his mind when the gun went off and Mary cried out. Without hesitation he turned toward her, yanking her into his arms and turning her away from the source of the bullets. He vaguely heard the screams of other mourners, and his back burned. But none of that mattered as he pulled Mary to the ground and covered her body with his.

Bullets continued to fly. Marshall shielded Mary's head with his own. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over. He heard Stan yell orders and call for a bus, but all he could think about was Mary.

Oh, God, Mary…

Easing himself off of her, he gently rolled her onto her back and searched for wounds. There was a single entry wound in her shoulder, and a bruise was forming on her temple, probably from when he had yanked her to the ground.

He coughed and groaned. "Mary…" His head felt fuzzy, and the burning in his back intensified. Gasping, he draped himself over her, effectively applying pressure to the wound in her shoulder. The world spun faster around him, and he closed his eyes.

The last thing he heard was Stan shouting his name, and then he knew no more.

To Be Continued...

A/N: *evil smile* Yes, I'm terrible. I finally write a multi-chap fic, and this is what happens. Blame the muse! Thanks for reading, and please review!