Title: The Great Irony
Author: Maddy 51
Rating: K/PG
Pairing: Mary/Marshall
Spoilers: Through Season 3 - "Son of Mann"
Disclaimer: Don't own them, never did
Summary: He shares most things with her, but not everything
He shares most things with her, but not everything. There's a scar on his left knee he got while rock climbing in college. He never told her he enjoys rock climbing. His mom visits him at least once a year and he never tells her, never introduces them, never mentions Mrs. Mann beyond the casual reference. When she tells him she and Raph have broken their engagement, he doesn't tell her that he knows how she feels, that he knows how dark the world probably seems to her at that moment. He's told her about his time as a Marshal in West Texas, but he hasn't told her about the girl he'd been engaged to for a year before she ended it.
Mary knows him better than anyone else, and he wants to give her everything. Wants to tell her about the strawberry blond who broke his heart. Wants to tell her how he had lost his footing and tumbled down the face Owl Rock in Utah. He wants her to meet his mother, wants to introduce the two most important people in his life to each other. Something holds him back. Self preservation he guesses. So much of his world has been, is, her. Protecting her, building her trust, breaking down barriers until she trusts him implicitly. Sometimes it's too much. All Mary all the time can be overwhelming, but he wouldn't trade it for anything.
Somewhere along the line, he realizes he's falling for her. Falling harder than he had in Texas. He still remembers the hell of that heartbreak. He spent three days drunk out of his mind and two years trying to piece everything back together. This is why he holds back these little pieces of his life. He needs a starting point, a baseline to build from when this all inevitably goes south. This is the great irony of their relationship – he's the only one she trusts, and she's who he hides pieces of himself from daily.
When his dad comes into town, he's strung taught, shifting and sidling like a nervous Labrador puppy, unable to maintain his usual calm demeanor. She notices, smooths her hand down his back once while his father is turned away. A silent promise that, while she's enjoying his discomfort for now, she sees his breaking point approaching and she's there for him. He appreciates the gesture, but isn't sure it's enough to hold him together for the next few days of this operation. His worlds are colliding. He never harbored any illusion that he could keep his father from Mary, just his vulnerability in the man's presence. Yet here he is, the gawky high school kid trying to convince his dad that he is, in fact, good enough, and she's there to observe every aching moment of it. He cringes as he recalls the heated discussion just before they attempted to bust Liam. Even being right doesn't erase the petulant whine that had overtaken him in the SUV.
He comes home at the end the last day of Operation Falcon to a quiet house. He's tired, both emotionally and physically. As he goes over the events of the last few days, he's still unsure about his dad. He's not naive enough to think that all those tiny cuts they've inflicted on each other over the years can be healed by a four year-old's drawing, but he supposes it soothes a few. He knows it says something that his dad stuck around, but at this point he's unsure what that something is.
She knocks on his door at 11:17. He's had two tumblers of the Scotch his dad brought him, and between the relief of completing this operation, the departure of his father and the alcohol, he's feeling warmly fuzzy and relaxed. He imagines this is as close to peaceful as someone in his line of work ever gets.
"Hey," he drawls, pulling the single word into two syllables. She smiles as she ducks under his arm to enter the apartment, not waiting for or needing an invitation. She's immediately aware of the hazy semi-euphoric state he's in. This isn't the first time she's seen it, and it never fails to amuse her.
"Hey yourself," she replies, moving to the kitchen to get her own glass, "You glad pa Mann is gone?"
"I am awash in the glow of relief," he says gesturing to himself with a half-empty drink.
"Yeah, the glow of relief and a $60 bottle of Glenlivet," he shrugs, granting her point, and her face turns serious for a moment as she holds her glass up, "to family."
"To family," he says, smiling wanly.
"You know, Marshall," It's rarely a good thing when she speaks in this tone, "You don't have to like your dad just because he stayed, and you don't have to sidestep the issue with me just because mine didn't. Just because he stayed doesn't make him a good father." She's moved to sit next to him where he's slouched on the couch.
"He tried," he responds, looking up at her, "That counts for something."
"It does," she nods, but her tone suggests she doesn't fully agree. "Every single thing counts, but no one thing counts for everything."
He's silent while he ponders this, rolls it around in his head and smiles at that turn on his father's signature statement. For a moment he wants to tell her about his mother. How she smooths out all of his dad's rough edges. How he wouldn't have hidden his origami pieces from her. How she would have wanted to meet the bookstore clerk Marshall had discussed opera and Nietzsche with. He wants to tell her about Christmas, about how his dad pulls his mother away from the stove when he thinks no one is looking and dances her around the kitchen singing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" off key. He wants to explain that it isn't that his father had stayed or that his mother wasn't an alcoholic mess, it was that they had found each other. Two parts to a whole. It wasn't one symbolic thing, it was all the little things. It was everything. All of this is too complicated for his lethargic brain to sort into cohesive sentence structure. Instead, he turns to her on the couch and curls his hand around her neck, tracing her cheek with his thumb and says, "You should meet my mother."
She smiles, because she recognizes this offering for what it is. She's been working at this for a while. Protecting him, gaining his trust, breaking down his barriers, and she feels like she's one step closer to knowing more about the man who makes it his job to catch her every time she stumbles.
"I'd like that," she whispers as the thumb on her cheek continues to sweep back and forth. She leans into it and the mood in the room shifts incrementally. She's fully aware of where this relationship of theirs is headed. She's known for about a year that he's in love with her; known for about a month that she feels the same. She knows that he's stockpiled pieces of information away, like a mental fall out shelter in case she breaks his heart.
"High school me would have eaten high school you alive," she says softly, echoing her retort from a couple of days ago, "But here's the thing, high school me was an idiot." He smiles, and she knows he recognizes the promise in those words, understands what she's giving him. She knows he's not ready to step into this yet, but sitting here on his couch, basking in the glow of his smile, a $60 bottle of Glenlivet and the warmth of his hand, she thinks he'll be ready soon.