A/N: Okay. I shouldn't be this nervous about posting something, but I am, so, wish me luck. Hi. My name is Kit and I am new to the IPS fandom -I fell in love with the show this summer and have watched every episode in order, save for season four, which has been more or less inconsistent with the whole "in order" chronological thing. Anyway, this is my first piece for IPS; I'm just stopping in from the NCIS corner of the web where I lurk and read and take up too much space. The people over here seem nice and I look forward to making your cyber-friendship. . . Oh! And, as I've been watching the show, I've come to this realization: Mary and Marshall are so meant to be together (which seems to be the general consensus anyway) -they just need to reach the same conclusion together. So, enough of my ramblings and on to the fic! It was a pleasure meeting you and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Keep the peace, Kit.
DISCLAIMER: If I owned it . . . Wait. Isn't if the operative word? Psh. Use the context clue.
AND BABY MAKES TWO
"Mary, what's this?"
She turns to regard her sister, the younger woman leaning against the island counter, a piece of paper in her hand.
"What's what?" Mary asks, coming to glance over Brandi's shoulder before offering a single shouldered shrug, "That? Looks like a list." And she goes back to rifling through the dishwasher, setting clean silverware in the appropriate drawer, muttering something about still dirty plates and what the hell is that still stuck to the fork?
"It's not your handwriting," Brandi points out, studying the paper critically. The penmanship is neat and careful, nothing like her sister's scarcely legible scrawl. And it's organized, to the point of obsessive compulsive.
"Geez, Squish, did you and Peter decide to go into the private detective business without telling me? God."
"It's got dates and names and there's a section labeled 'Bathroom Locations'," Brandi says, oblivious to Mary's irritation. She looks over to Mary, who feels the questioning gaze through the back of her tank top.
"Brandi . . ." she warns, silently asking herself why she always seems to get fixated on one thing.
And suddenly Brandi's hazel eyes go wide in the dawning of comprehension and she blurts excitedly, "This is Marshall's handwriting. Oh my god, Mary, is Marshall the father?"
"What?" Mary demands before declaring adamantly, "No! Hell no! Jesus, Brandi, that's how rumors get started."
Brandi narrows her eyes, clearly unconvinced. "You never did say who the daddy is . . ." she hedges innocently.
"Yeah, I know. And I know you know why you don't know."
Brandi stays silent for a long minute and Mary praises herself mentally, proud of her superior diversion tactics and thankful that her sister's strong suite was never words or riddles. Finally, Brandi shakes off the confusion, gearing back up for her continued pursuit of all things outside her need to know, "What? Whatever . . . Is it Mark's?"
Damn, she's relentless.
"Brandi!" Mary snaps, slapping her hand on the granite countertop and whirling around to face her sister. "God, let it go. It's not Marshall's and I'm not telling you whose it is. It was a one night stand that was the result of a major lapse in good judgment. So let it go."
Brandi holds her hands up in front of her, mock-fending Mary off, "Fine, geez, okay. Will you at least tell me who these people are?" She taps one manicured finger to the paper, indicating the brief list of names and numbers.
Mary's voice is flat when she says carefully, "Potential adoptive families." And she's been careful at avoiding this subject with her family, knowing a prospective landmine when she sees one. This conversation has train wreck written on caution tape all over it; it really is too bad Jinx is missing the initial round.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa –wait. You're putting the baby up for adoption?" Brandi's voice is incredulous and a shade affronted, as if Mary's decision is ludicrous at best.
Mary sighs, steeling herself before replying with a quick and affirmative, "Yes."
"Why?"
It's Mary's turn to look at Brandi as if Brandi's the one to have lost her mind. "Because," she says, and does she have to spell it out? "I can't raise a kid by myself."
"But you're not by yourself!" Brandi cries, moving as if to approach Mary before deciding against it. "You've got me and Peter and Mom."
It takes every ounce of self control she has to keep from erupting into scathing laughter. "Brandi," Mary placates smoothly after reigning in the instinctual snark, "look. I appreciate the sentiment, really, I do, it's just that . . . I promised myself years ago that if I was ever to do this, to have a kid, it wouldn't be a repeat performance of our childhood. I want my kid to have a mom and a dad with stable jobs; not a mom and an aunt and uncle and grandma. I want her to grow up in a house that's permanent, where there's a . . . freaking Christmas tree every year and a tree house and family vacations to Disney for crying out loud. I've had this picture in my head and my life is nothing like it and I . . . Brandi, I can't subject this baby to anything less than a perfect situation. Regardless if you and Mom and Peter helped out, I'd still be a single mother and, frankly, I've watched the self-destruction of several women trying to do it all and I'll pass, thanks."
Minutes trickle by and the pair seem to be at a standoff, with Mary trying valiantly to hold back tears –and silently damning the hormones to the innermost circle of hell- and Brandi just staring at her older sister in shock and awe. Eventually, the latter of the two breaks the silence, speaking with all the finesse she is known for:
"You know, I can think of someone who would be more than willing to give you that. I mean, he's loved you every day since he's met you, or at least, since I've known him, and that's no small feat Mary" –and Mary is vaguely impressed that Brandi used a word like feat- "He'd help you have your perfectly normal thing –hell, Mary, he's practically perfectly normal! And he would make an awesome Dad."
She doesn't entertain Brandi's ill-conceived alternative for a heartbeat.
"I can't ask Marshall to raise another man's baby, Brandi. Good god."
"Why not?" Brandi demands petulantly.
"Because it isn't fair to Marshall!" And how did he even get into this conversation again? She shakes her head as if to clear it. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Mary crosses the kitchen, brushing past her sister's perch at the island.
Brandi fixes her with a look as she passes; a look that's slightly unsettling in Mary's opinion, it's an expression of endless patience and what can only be perceived infinite wisdom. "But he'd do it." For you.
Mary pauses at the mouth of the hallway and closes her eyes against the memories, recollections and fragmented bits of past that provide testament to the fact that her partner is irrevocably devoted to her –if only as her partner. Pinching the bridge of her nose and letting out a slow, heavy breath, she says carefully, slowly, "Just because he would doesn't mean he should –or that I'd even let him. Brandi, Marshall has Abby now; he's in a relationship with the potential to have a family of his own." With blue-eyed, auburn-haired genius babies.
"Mary," Brandi calls, realizing her retreat. "Where are you going?"
"To pee," Mary tosses over her shoulder, leaving Brandi and Marshall's stupid list and the ridiculous promises she made to herself decades ago in her wake.