Title: It Was Two Weeks Before Christmas.
Author: Caia
Rating: Mary being Mary... PG?.
Spoilers: General for season 4.
Summary: She wouldn't normally let Christmas decorations chase her away from her own home.
AN: All mistakes (grammar, spelling, punctuation, format, etc) are mine. The original idea came to me quite a few episodes back and I didn't write it 'cos, well, life. It did not turn out the way I expected it to, though. I'm taking the liberty of ignoring Abigail (totally and completely) and probably taking some liberties with the math, too. IPS is (sadly) not mine.

Jinx and Brandi had inched their way back into the house. They had not moved back in, but it seemed like they were always ithere/i. And they had taken it upon themselves to pull up Christmas decorations: the biggest plastic tree they could find, the most ridiculous stockings, the brightest lights, much too mistletoe - seriously, mistletoe!- for which Mary had protested, to no effect. Well, no effect of Mary's liking, anyway. Her protests had only sent her mother on a rant about how she did not appreciate all the effort Brandi and her were putting into getting the house all nice for the holidays, considering how she couldn't do it herself, in her condition.

She could ignore her mother's rant, she could avoid telling her mother that if she didn't put up decorations it was because she didn't want to and not because she was pregnant, and she could ignore the decorations. She came home from work late, tired and hungry, grabbed something to eat and tried not to fall asleep in the tub. Considerably more relaxed, she went to bed and slept till the very last alarm went off, and then she went to work – even if she was on desk duty, that was better than being at home. She didn't have, well, she didn't make time to see the decorations. I didn't ask for any lights and stockings, and I certainly did not ask for mistletoe!. Had she paid attention beyond the sheer amount of colour, she would have noticed when an extra and smaller stocking was hung beside the others. But she ignored how much it looked like all the elves and the reindeers had puked Santa's workshop into her living room, and ignored her mother and sister, too, until two weeks before Christmas, when wrapped up boxes of who-knows-what showed up under the tree, labelled "for Baby-Shannon, from Santa" in Brandi's less than perfect scrawl. That, she could not ignore.

"Brandi!" Mary hollered when she saw the box, "what the hell is this!"

When Brandi came out from the kitchen, though looking somewhat ashamed, Mary continued: "I thought I made it perfectly clear that I'm not keeping this kid! And you go around buying stuff?"

"Mary, sweetheart, a baby needs things..." her mother defended from her spot next to her youngest.

"Mom, for God's sake, I'm not keeping it! Whatever it might need, his adoptive parents will get it. Hell, they probably have all the stuff already."

"But Mary..."

"No. Mom. Brandi. No. I'm serious. I thought it was clear that I'm sure I'm giving the kid up for adoption. That's the end of it. The baby-stuff is going back, or I'm giving it away, or selling it!"

Mary did not take well to being chased away from her own home. But she honestly just didn't have the energy necessary to push Brandi and Jinx and their decorations out of her house. And she did not take well with people wanting to take care of her. She was only pregnant, after all, it's not like she was dying, she was just carrying a kid for a few long months and then she'd be back to her normal snarky self – the only difference would be that with a little training she'd be a few pounds lighter, and she'd be able to see her feet again, and move around comfortably, sleep on her stomach, drink, God, she'd be able to drink alcohol, and coffee, and even go out and...

Christmas decorations at Marshall's were discreet. He had a small tree with tiny hand-made ornaments he had collected over the years, lights over the chimney, and mistletoe hanging only from the kitchen doorframe.

She had gone to vent about her situation at home, and Marshall had made her tea, and somehow, she honestly didn't remember how, she had ended on the couch with her shoes off and her feet on his lap. Her eyes had closed as his fingers dug into her tired soles, and she had just stopped talking, her brain had stopped, all she was that very moment was the skin that came in contact with Marshall's able fingers. Her breath had evened out, and she had fallen asleep as his fingers started working their way up her calves. When she had woken up three hours later, too late to go home – the ice or something – and he had asked if she was feeling better, it didn't sound like it usually sounded when someone asked, like they wanted to take care of her because she was pregnant and fragile and she couldn't do anything by herself, it just sounded like Marshall, her partner, her friend, asking her if she had rested, if her feet still hurt, just being him.

Sitting on the couch between Marshall and Oscar, with her feet propped up on the coffee table, a blanket and a bowl of popcorn on her lap, watching some action movie with explosions, gun play, and sweaty half naked men, Mary was content being taken care of for a little while – not that she'd admit it to anyone.