A/N: This is my first IPS fanfiction. Last night I found a little empty, blue book like you get at school sometimes, and started writing lyrics to Snow Patrol's 'What If This Storm Ends' and 'Crack the Shutters,' then I started to write this out. I was up until two AM, but I only hesitated a couple of times, looking for the write word or phrase- my muse carried me through pretty well. Hopefully you like it, but whether you do or not, please review and tell me what you think!
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following characters, as they belong to the USA Network. I do not own the name Glock, nor do I own a Glock. I do not own the US Marshals Service. No copyright infringement intended.
It was his fault. Much as he wanted to deny it, it was his fault. In fact, he wasn't sure he wanted to deny it. It was his fault. He had to take responsibility for it.
Who was he kidding? He wanted to deny it. He didn't want to take responsibility. But he couldn't help it. No matter what he did or said, no matter what anyone else told him, it was his fault. There was no question in his mind that it was his fault. All his fault. Plain and simple.
If she didn't make it....
No. He couldn't even think that. If he didn't think about it, it would never happen. Never. Besides, how could it? She was… her. Plain and simple. That's all there was to it. It wasn't possible for her to die, it just wasn't.
But now he'd thought it. Now it was possible. Now he couldn't get the thought out of his head. If she doesn't make it….
What? What would happen? What would he do? Would he survive if she didn't? No, he didn't think so. He didn't think so. He didn't think it was possible to live that way. No, it definitely wasn't. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure how he had survived before he met her. How could he have gotten by that way, without her? Thinking back, life seemed dull and boring, absolutely mundane then. Sure, at the time everything had seemed fine, but now? How could anyone live without her in their life?
He was careful not to think her name. Couple that with the forbidden thoughts he'd already had, and it would be inevitable, not just possible. He wasn't allowed to think her name.
Of course, he did as soon as he told himself not to.
Mary Shannon.
Marshall could have shot himself. He'd been holding himself together for Jinx, Brandi, hell, even Raph. But now, with those thoughts, he couldn't. Just couldn't.
He paced. An hour passed. Two hours. Three. He never sat down, just paced, back and forth, back and forth. If a doctor came in, he never even noticed, buried as he was in his thoughts.
After the fourth hour, he went out to the parking lot. He couldn't drive, he could hardly see. But he could walk. He could run.
But how do you run away from your thoughts?
Marshall ran until his lungs felt as if they would explode and fell, panting and wheezing, to his knees in the middle of the desert. He had no idea how long he'd run for, nor did he care. He had no idea where he was, nor did he care. He had no idea how many people he'd shoved out of his way to get there, nor did he care. He could have been hit by a car, he wouldn't have noticed. Nor would he have cared.
Now he couldn't even stay upright. His elbows hit the dirt, his forehead on the ground between his wrists. He didn't care that he was ruining the knees of his favorite jeans. Why should he? He didn't care that he was ruining the elbows of his best jacket. Why should he?
After a minute that felt like an eternity, his breathing had returned to normal. He was beyond tears at this point, beyond feeling anything. He was no longer angry at himself or the shooter, he wasn't hopeful or even in pain.
Marshall Mann, the US Marshal, was broken. Plain and simple.
Even if Mary Shannon woke up, she'd want Raph there with her, and her mother, even the younger sister she sometimes hates, but really loves. She loves them all.
But not him. She doesn't love him. Never did. And she never would. Even if she woke up, she'd never be his. His best friend, but not his. He never had and never would have any claim over her.
And it killed him.
Lying on his back, Marshall saw the sun glint off something at his waist. Two somethings, which brought his attention to another something, hidden under his jacket. A belt buckle, a badge, and, when he pushed his jacket aside, a holstered gun.
He took the badge off and clutched in his left hand, slid the gun out of his holster with his right, and ignored the belt buckle. He stared at both for, well, he wasn't sure how long.
He didn't care, either.
Marshall dropped his badge to his chest, so the star rested on the buttons of his shirt. For several minutes he closed his eyes, then pressed the cold muzzle of his own Glock to his right temple.
He opened his eyes again. He wanted to see the world one last time, but all he saw was clear blue sky. With no energy to look around, it would have to be enough.
He didn't notice the phone in his pocket, which had been ringing for the last two hours or so. He was about to pull the trigger when his own words came back to him.
"I will try not to die. For you."
Still, he laid there, gun to his head, but he had put the safety on, almost unconsciously. Another minute- or was it a year?- and his hand dropped to the dirt, the gun falling from his limp hand and clattering on a flat rock under his head. The tears came back again, much worse than before. The last time he'd sobbed like this, beyond control, he was a little boy. He didn't notice the SUV that pulled up twenty feet away, or the arms that wrapped around him, because while subconsciously he knew they were there, they weren't the arms he wanted to feel.
Eventually, he consciously realized he was sitting up, held by two pairs of arms. One, Jinx, the other, Stan. Marshall didn't care to think what it would take to get Jinx from the hospital. It would either devastate him or get his hopes up, only to dash them again when he came back to his senses. Dimly, he heard Brandi and Bobby D. behind him, though he couldn't understand them. Were they even speaking a human language? And then another familiar voice. Raph's. That couldn't be good, but he couldn't think about it.
He concentrated instead on the rough hand rubbing circles on his back- Stan. Jinx just held him and he heard her crying, felt the tears soaking through his jacket, but it was nothing to the sobs racking Marshall's own body.
Even when his eyes were open, nothing. Marshall couldn't see a thing, so he didn't bother with the effort of keeping his eyes open anymore.
When at last he had stopped shaking, Raph and Bobby D. helped Stan get Marshall to his feet. He almost fell again, so the homicide detective and the Dominican ex-shortstop each threw one of his arms over their shoulders, realizing he couldn't support himself anymore.
But he didn't notice. What he did notice was a hand taking his holster off his belt. Stan added the holster to his own and replaced Marshall's Glock in it, realizing what might happen if he gave it back to his Inspector, safety or no safety.
Marshall felt fury now. Fury at Stan. "Give it back," he spat angrily. "It's mine!"
He was deaf to the calming words of the others and ripped out of Bobby and Raph's restraining hold as though they weren't even there. Advancing towards where he knew Stan was, he was suddenly aware of the sensation of sight- he could see again.
"Marshall, you know I can't give it back to you."
"It's mine." The words were crystal clear and steady, even a little icy, but lacking his original anger. Stan stood his ground.
"I promised," Marshall muttered uselessly a few minutes later, having been repeatedly denied his request for his weapon. He fell once more to his knees. "I promised…."
And he thought of nothing, felt nothing. He was alive, conscious, even, and kneeling, but he couldn't see. Couldn't hear. Couldn't smell, taste, or feel. There was not a single thought in his head.
He'd run away from them all.