Disclaimer: IPS - ain't mine.

Written as a giftfic via prompt on Mary_Marshall community on Live Journal.

Title: Forbidden Fruit(cake)
Author: rj_lupins_kat
Written For: kathiann
Pairings/Characters: Brandi/Marshall/Mary
Rating: PG-13
Prompt/Summary/Spoilers/Warnings:

Prompt #2: Marshall/Brandi "forbidden"...this is a personal favorite of mine, you never really see these two paired together.

Forever is a long time to be tied to one man, to forsake all others. Especially when you've just discovered there's something to be curious about – with the most forbidden of all men.

An attempt to both meet the guilty pleasures of request, and yet still stay in canon character. I hope this succeeds.

##Don't let the description worry you, Mary/Marshall fans; even here, he still belongs to Mary.##

Forbidden Fruit(cake)

The cocktail shrimp were a little dry. The non-alcoholic beer… uh, yeah. What she'd give for an ice-cold Coors right now. Their guests, however, probably weren't up for the temptation, so she'd just have to make do with the fruity concoction Peter had mixed. Fresh lime – unripe lemon? – and strawberries and oranges and some other green fruit…

Brandi Shannon sipped with bored grace, arm crossed mid-chest, grasping close the errant elbow of her drinking appendage. The gesture enhanced her full breasts to an eye-catching display of plush black velvet draping even softer pale flesh. Gazes aplenty drunk in intoxication burned at the image, but she failed to notice. Preoccupation rattled about in a mind whipping through future scenarios, whiplash occurring with every new path.

She was getting married. Evidence faced tangibly with this very gathering, a semi-formal engagement party bestowed in their honor. Peter, fiancé of quality and charm and unconditional love and understanding. And healthy finances. (So her sister and mother had said, respectively.) And she was… despairing. That was her own word. She'd run across it in a romance, and after looking it up, had to agree.

It wasn't that Peter wasn't a wonderful guy; he so totally was. But Brandi couldn't fathom at that moment the finality of one man. Only. Always. Never to be free to taste of the buffet of muscle and hormones all around her.

It was suffocating.

After all the congratulatory chatter had been said and done away with an hour ago, their semi-formal guests had meandered on, mingling, entertaining each other. Leaving the youngest Shannon alone with her musings. That perhaps wasn't the best place for her to be at the moment – not and sober as well – but she supposed it was better than trying to fake perky with people she didn't know. Of her own guests, there was a total of… let's see, Mom, Mary (wearing a denim jacket, no less), Katie from Lit class… oh, and Mary drug Marshall here…

And just as if by magic, her thoughts produced said reluctant escort across the room. He was talking with some cute redhead, the fashionista blatantly flirting with him without finesse, in Brandi's opinion. Too heavy on the eye colors, wrong shade for lips, but whatever; she had to admit the girl was stunning. Another business partner of Peter's, she realized, and curiously wondered why the world traveler was setting up such a game for Marshall, of all people.

Marshall. It hit her then in that sort of way like when the Sunday paper has a box of squiggly lines and they tell you there's a beautiful woman in the picture but all you see is the hag. You stare at it forever, bite your lip and turn sideways. And suddenly, your eyes crossing slightly, you see the back image of an elegant society lady. After that, you never see the hag again. Well… she'd never really thought he was a hag, but in that moment Brandi's view hazed a bit, lines fuzzed together, and everything was amazingly clear: Marshall was hot.

She didn't know how she'd ever missed it before. Maybe because he was always with Mary, and she never paid much attention but that he was her older sister's brainy partner? But from her vantage point near the punch table, Brandi could see the soft laughter on his face as he conversed with – Natasha? Natalia? Nichole? – and the smile wasn't forced, the hint of little boy remnants still visible inside the fine lines she knew were forming at the outside corners of his eyes right now. Eyes that were dancing – seriously! – and though she couldn't make out what he was saying, Nina – Nola? Nettie? – was drinking every word in. Honestly. And Brandi knew the look of fake interest, and this modelesque millionaire wasn't pretending.

Brandi contemplated the man across the room, took a moment to truly critique his form and presence. She noticed that once she stripped him of his title, of his descriptors a la Mary – (brainy, geek, dork, pain-in-her-ass) – a vision solidified and Brandi recognized long, lean, and powerful muscles draped in jet silk and pressed ebony linen. No scrawny-ass was Mary's Marshall. (And he was Mary's Marshall, not that her sister would ever admit to such. Brandi had long seen longing gazes from this man to her oblivious, undeserving sister.)

He really was a beautiful man, now that she paused to notice. Stirrings of curiosity fluttered through her belly, a rush of excitement, tingle of awareness. Images and plans tumbled in a rush through her starved mind, and within minutes Brandi knew what she needed to do – had to do – before this exchanging of rings and eternities.

She suddenly felt rather chilled.

-o-

Mary had groused the whole way there, pausing only to reluctantly thank him for coming along. It had been no great sacrifice on his part; Marshall had always liked Peter and was happy to stop by for perfunctory congratulations. Once they'd arrived, Mary had said a few words to both family and in-law-to-be, then headed off for food and solitary disentanglement. Marshall, on the other hand, enjoyed the socializing the soiree offered.

Nietzsche had been called over to meet someone, and even her eyes had said she regretted the diversion, a quickly spoken promise suggesting nine minutes' time all she would need. He was flattered, to be certain. A most well-created creature of fine mind and body sought his company; nice change of pace, he considered, a quick glance about the rooms for his wayward betta.

"Marshall." The relief in his name brought his brows upward in attention as he turned to the man at his elbow. Peter looked rather harried, juggling glassware in hands, two deep green bottles beneath one arm, and some beribboned, gold-filigreed box betwixt chin and chest. Instinctively the marshal moved to allay the bridegroom-to-be of his trappings, but said mule merely eased back a step with a cautious shake of his head.

"No; I've got all this. The caterer called; they've got a flat and will be another thirty minutes. Would you mind running downstairs and grabbing the last set of Atlantis glasses? They're on the hanging tier on the right, above the chardonnay. Oh," he said, turning back from his immediate retreat, "and could you grab another couple bottles, please? Thanks." Faith his requests would be fulfilled, Peter quickly vanished into the ever-increasing crowd of well-wishers.

Marshall smiled; it seemed Mary's impending brother-in-law had everything under control, albeit nerves. A quick glance assured him his mutual interest was still occupied, and would be for some time if the entourage surrounding Nietzsche was any indication. Turning toward the back of the house, Marshall turned a corner to the wine cellar entrance, not fully shutting the door behind for ease of exit.

Handful of steps and only his own height down, and the din of socialization faded to a muted hum. By the time he made the clay bottom, Marshall felt he'd stepped into a prior century, peacefully alone. Old fashioned was the design, solid, aged oaken racks held dust-layered bottles. Bewildered, Marshall brushed off one nearby label with a finger, studying in the dim overhead light the label.

"A man of true ingenuity, Peter; you never let addiction mar tradition." He chuckled to himself, moving away from the custom bottled, non-alcoholic sparkling fruit drinks. Gazing across the marked racks, he found the Chardonnay section and moved to retrieve the glasses suspended above. Pulling one down to study, he twirled the stem between index and thumb, a low whistle breaking from dry lips.

"And a man of exquisite taste," he murmured. "Over seven hundred for a set of six."

Marshall set to work, gently relieving the hanging rack of its final load. Placing the extremely delicate crystal etched in a sea-floor world rim down atop the wine rack, he considered the opposing natures of their hosts above stairs. Peter was this Artel glassware, intricate, interesting, unassuming. And worth far more than appearances suggested. Brandi, however…

Brandi Shannon was blatant in her beauty, energetic, vivacious. And worth far more than she gave herself credit.

"Ah, Brandi," he mused aloud, selecting and pulling another two bottles from the recently vacated rack. Half-smile tugged at a cheek. "You're like the wine that should be in these casks… bold and intoxicating and flavorful. And deceptively healing in nature. If only you'd let yourself be challenged… meet your potential and become the full-bodied wine out of the smashed grapes of your youth."

A low chuckle escaped him as he unavoidably compared Brandi's analogy to her sister's. Mary was the one who would do the stomping, would protect the vineyard of her family, withered leaves, soured fruit and all. The small grin grew to full smile, and he tucked a bottle beneath each bicep. Palms upward, fingers laced between each stem to three glasses per hand. A stray hope flickered through his mind, and he wondered if the coming together of seeming opposites could work for both Shannon siblings one day.

Deep sigh cleansing his errant path of thought, Marshall turned toward the stairs, focus intent on the lovely auburn upstairs who was interested in him. It was a change a pace his self-esteem desperately nee–

And then there was darkness.

-o-

Clomp, clomp, clomp. Heavy footsteps ringing of her four-inch heels reverberated in the cavern of the wine cellar as she made her way slowly down the stairs. Total blackness wasn't helping, but Brandi knew her way in the small room, had memorized where Marshall now stood, frozen she was sure. He was calling out softly, 'Hello?' but answering wasn't in the cards. Brandi's nervous grin grew marginally; it was time to taste the dessert marked Off Limits.

Enough adjustment for the blackness, and Brandi's vision could make out Marshall's shape. She knew where what she sought was, and with determined purpose met him, grabbed handfuls of ethereal silk, and forcibly found his lips with hers.

Just what she had intended, Brandi wasn't quite sure, herself. To give in to her curiosity, to discover if her feminine intuition was still as accurate as ever… to experience the thrill of a newly discovered secret in all its naughty, delicious glory…

It was first a haphazard crushing of soft flesh, his malleable in confusion and shock. Hers were controlling, taking his surprise and manipulating it, determined to draw him into the moment. She wanted to quench her thirst for knowledge – of him. Of his kisses, his passions. Had she read him right, once she'd noticed him? Was he all man beneath that mask of sci-fi geek? Or did he even know what to do with a wo–

Oh, God. Yes. Yes, he certainly did. Brandi was absolutely not prepared for… for…

Control was a thought fleeting, and something she no longer had of the situation. An 'On' switch had been thrown, capturing her entirely. Her pressure against him was suddenly met ten-fold, a live wire striking, zapping her mind of all coherent thought. Feel, feel, feel. Oh, God, she could only feel. Those soft lips were firm, demanding, taking. Luring. Tongue darting across her upper lip, inside, promising, tempting.

He couldn't hold her, his hands filled with delicate crystal. His arms tucked to hold breakable bottles. But Marshall had managed in a blind blink to grip her sides with forearms corded in muscle she could feel beneath the denim. No hands, but still he brought her hard against him, her full breasts meeting precisely what she had guessed, but had not expected to be so very real. The wall of hard and sculpted heat taunted her body, now straining against the separating material. The barest presence of mind kept Brandi from splaying her hands across his chest, from delving beneath the thin material to explore these new planes of temptation. Instead, her left digits abandoned their grasp to slide fisted knuckles up to shoulder, to bicep –

Desire and instinct and a blur of motion, and that arm flew behind his neck desperately; he had managed with a talent beyond her experience to – with forearms only – bring her full body flush to his. And Jesus what a body. Her right foot stepped between his never-ending legs, her left curving about a solid thigh, pressing unabashedly her hips into him… her soft belly molding against purely male.

Brandi clung, mind speeding in a race with her heartbeat, her breath lost in their wake. Any sense of power she had had walking into this had vanished the moment Marshall had left the observation bench and took the field of play. She was drowning, gulping for air, struggling for oxygen, for him, for more.

Vaguely her thoughts wandered to how anyone could mistake this Spartan for a girly geek, as Mary often called him. Not an inch of him even hinted at less than Gladiator masculinity, and her sister was a fool… for… dismissing…

The moan caught in her throat and she held it there desperately, biting her lower lip as Marshall left her mouth and his teeth… tongue… lips found her neck… down the straining muscle… Bristle of a five o'clock shadow scraped against sensitive skin, nearly driving her to crawl out of it. Possessive nips, tightening grip, the shift of his weight, his hips, into her… his thigh between brushing her –

Her hips jerked with the touch, pleading, and suddenly she knew she had to get out of there. Spiraling out of control and burning with a fever inflamed by the most unlikely of souls, Brandi tried to pull away, finding it ever more difficult than anticipated. Not because he held her physically, but because her body withheld from her any wish to leave this encompassing sensation. Breath hot against her skin, controlled, heavy. Tension in his body like a wild animal preparing to pounce. And God help her, she wanted to be his sacrificial prey.

Breathy the words fell, and Brandi begged to ignore them, but in the stillness of the room Marshall's needful chant filled her head.

"Mary… ah, Mary…"

An out-of-body sense took smirking pleasure in being right, in having known full well this man was in love with her sister. She hadn't been wrong in her assessment, hadn't imagined the looks of burning want and need he'd cast upon his partner when she wasn't looking. And, it seemed now, Brandi had also been right about Marshall being more than met the eye, a helluva lot more man than Mary had ever given him credit. Maybe more than Mary could handle.

But his hungry speech forced her to remember the others involved. Her boredom, her fear, was affecting more than herself, and this deception wasn't fair to Marshall… to Mary… to Peter. Oh, Peter. He didn't deserve this. A good man who loved her, who saw in her what all others – family and herself included – failed to see. He was her fiancé; she loved him, and that was that.

Both fists slid again to his solid chest, and Brandi pushed slightly to gain room to move. In a last hoorah her body craved, she ducked her head to catch his lips as they were pulled from her neck. Frenzied and gasping and painful, met with equality and then some. Intense and lingering. Slow draw of his lower lip from between her teeth. And only when Brandi recalled vividly that it was Mary he wanted like this, Mary – not Brandi – he was pouring this passion out to, was she able to break the urgent connection, firmly push away from him and flee. At the top of the stairs, hidden from below, she flipped the light before escaping, the door softly bouncing against the strike plate.

-o-

Blinded. Eyes snapped shut for three long breaths, then slowly opened, adjusting painfully.

He'd heard the dinging of brass on brass, the slight reverberation of flexing wood as the latch reflected off the plate. It rang in his ears, out-sounding the rush of blood and his own heartbeat. He was wound so tight, so very tight. Efforted breathing for control, for clearance of mind.

He couldn't believe that had just happened. Shocked at first contact, bemused as to who this attacker was. Then her lips moved across his, expecting, asking for a reaction. And then her smell – that unique smell of Mary filled his senses, and he reacted without conscious thought, embracing her awkwardly in the only way open to him. Her jacket rough against his bare wrists before his arms wrapped more fully about, limited by the bottles, by the damn glasses more than a hundred dollars apiece. Had Peter had lesser taste in glassware, Marshall would have said fuck it and dropped every last damned piece; the warm creature in his arms the greater – greatest – value.

And now she was gone. Damn it. He somehow had known if this day were to come, she'd run. Scared of her own passions. If only she were more like her little sister in that respect: Brandi was scared of being loved, yeah, but she wasn't afraid to take it when she was sure she had it.

Marshall sighed heavily, forcing his body to step down a few notches. He had to get upstairs before Peter overcompensated for the caterer's absence. Then, he had a strong suspicion, he'd have to find a new ride home.

Seven and a quarter minutes later, (and divested of his booty), Marshall milled through the throngs of well-wishers, seeking the redhead who had promised to return to him. Nietzsche had previously suggested some shared prose, and with a wry smile Marshall redirected his flight path. It might not be a completely empty evening, yet.

Rounding the corner into the library, he was brought up short at the woman sighted before.

"Mary?" Edge of incredulousness slipped into the query. Turning only her head from the spines she studied, said subject half-gulped the white wine wannabe she held permanently aloft and met his gaze with sarcastic and raised brow.

"What? Expecting one of my sister's jailbait co-eds to fulfill your every geekazoid, War and Peace – reading fantasy?" Usual dusting of disdain, no tell-tale signs of unease or fluster. Marshall's brows knitted.

"What are you… doing… here?" he asked cautiously, unable to hide his bafflement. She made a face, squaring shoulders to him.

"What; don't think I know what a damn library looks like? You know, I do read on occasion. It might not be Do-Dee-Sing-Sing crap like –"

"–Tao Te Ching–"

"– you do," she narrowed her eyes at the automatic correction, "but I'm quite capable of taking an interest in the written word."

He simply stared at her, unsure of himself. Something was definitely off here, and the strongest anomaly was that Mary's actions and reactions weren't. Off, that is. He took in her state of attire, the denim jacket rumpled in sections, but draped correctly over her athletic body. Nothing seemed out of place, which is exactly what was out of place.

She must have mistaken his silent study, for she dropped the ire and lowered her tone.

"All right, so I'm hiding out." His brows shot up. She was admitting it? Would they now openly discuss the last ten minutes? Marshall could hardly believe the change in her modus operandi. He watched, fascinated, as she shifted rapidly to see behind him, ensuring their relative privacy. "Hey, you try hobnobbing with Nana Alpert and Cousin Drexil, oohing and ahhing over repetitious tales of cheese conquests all over the country. That's 27 minutes of my life I'll never get back." Another searching glance.

"Once the game of Grab-ass with Uncle Lester started, that was it for me. I'll only put up with so much, even for family." She cast him a knowing looking. "Especially for family. So I escaped here." Pause. "If you see either of them coming, you have my permission to shoot me. But only then," she amended darkly.

He had to tread carefully. An unease had begun low in his belly, growing with every morsel of her tale. Grasping for a lifeline, he managed little eloquence but delivered his line.

"But… your jacket…" Weak gesture of hand, worry passing for critique.

Mary sighed irritably. "Look, you and Brandi and your fashion faus pax Gestapo need to lay off. I only just now found the damn thing again; I think Brandi bribed the maid to hide it. It's too damn cold in there with that flippin' ice sculpture, all right? Je-sus…" Rolling eyes and helpless fling of her free arm prefaced the downing of the last bit of drink. She grimaced, but held off commentary when she took in his expression.

Marshall didn't know what his face had shown as blood rushed from it, but it must have bordered on a tinge of green, for Mary's own features slid abruptly from semi-rant to serious concern.

"You all right, Marshall?" When only hesitant stammered starts fell from his lips, she set down the glass and latched onto his arm, towing him out of the library. "Yeah, I think it's time to get you home. Go grab your coat and I'll tell Brandi we're out of here. I'll meet you by the front door." She paused near the hallway entrance, intending to break from him so they each could accomplish their duties, and really looked at him.

"I think we need to head to my place; I've got a nice bottle of Jameson you've not found yet."

With a small shove, she sent him gracelessly on his way. And as he waded through the ensemble of friends and associates, Marshall dismissed all thoughts of Nietzsche and intellectual discussions, and frantically inspected bodies passed for denim jackets and blessed breasts and feminine height of substance. A culprit blended among them. Mary could be a good actress, but she wasn't that good.

And he had no idea who the hell had spiked his temperature, under the guise of his beautiful, vicious Mary. Deliberately. Deceptively.

Convincingly.

Who the hell could ever have pulled that off?

-o-

"Hey, Squish; we're gonna head on out. Some of us, you know, have to work a real job in the morning," Mary commented, giving her sister a tight hug that belied the bite of her words.

"Yeah, sure," the younger Shannon acknowledged, eyes a bit misted, slight shake to voice. "Thanks a lot for coming." Her eyes were bright and smile huge, but Mary thought she looked slightly… off.

"You, too?" she accused worriedly, and at Brandi's questioning look went on. "You look flushed. Marshall's a bit green about the gills, too, so I'm gonna get him to bed before I have to do his work, too, tomorrow." Realizing how it sounded, Mary quickly diverted before her sister could verbally attack.

"You take care of that crazy man in there," she added, head nodding back toward the larger gathering where Peter held audience. "At your age, the cute's wearing off and I doubt we'd find another one to take you. And I just got my house back."

Surprisingly Brandi just smiled even bigger, a shade of shy embarrassment giving a rose hue to her pale cheeks. "Hey, sis; maybe one day soon we'll be giving you a real engagement party."

Mary snorted. "Hah. That would require a real man to marry. And, of course, that I'd certifiably lost my mind."

Brandi's eyes slid over Mary's right shoulder, and spoke without returning her gaze. "Oh, I've a feeling there's a real man out there for you… who knows just how to make a woman completely lose herself in just his kiss."

Startled, Mary shot a glance over her shoulder to find Brandi's Exhibit A to be leaning tensely in the foyer archway, eyes scanning the crowd with an odd nervousness. She looked back at her sister, pulling a face. "Marshall?" Her back of hand pressed gently against Brandi's forehead then cheek. "You sure you're not coming down with something? Like atrophy of the brain?"

But the bride-to-be merely shook her head indulgently, a grin flitting across pink lips, and looked her sister straight in the eye, her heels making up their height difference. "Ah, Mary; you just never know what you're missing unless you sample it." At Mary's arched brow of query, Brandi explained in a laughing huff. "Oh, Mary, calm down. Just a little infidelity daydream, that's all. Your partner's totally hot."

Aghast, Mary stared open-mouthed. "Okay, I'm going, now," she said slowly, a feeling of dealing with the insane running through her.

As she approached Marshall to leave, she barely heard her sister call after her, "Nothing tastes better than forbidden fruit, Mary. You should try it sometime."

What Mary failed to see was Brandi's laughing gaze following Marshall's departure, her pink-tipped tongue darting across kiss-swollen lips, a Cheshire Cat grin following.