Set immediately after Season 4 episode "Girls, Interrupted."
Two points of view. Marshall and Mary's. Can be turned into a multi-chapter, but for right now it's a one shot.
The cases that the Albuquerque WITSEC office had handled directly involving children had been few and far between, possibly countable on one hand alone, and as Inspector Marshall Mann was tying up loose ends on the most recent transfer for Kenna Parnell, née Lita Lowe, there were only two facts burned into his memory, neither of which had any real importance to the report he was working on. Fact number one was the simple, repeating request from Kenna to speak to Inspector Mary Shannon. In all fairness, Kenna was Mary's witness, but the file was full of notes, unnecessary check-ins and phone calls, and visits by the supposedly cold WITSEC inspector who had no time for the basic frivolities of the day-to-day. This struck a chord with Marshall's Mary-sense, as well as his curiosity, and he began pulling files from other cases, all of which involved children Mary had risked every bit of her life to protect. They were similarly thick with updates on each child's condition at each time of contact and despite the fact that they were noted in her detached, clinical sarcasm, they were crammed with immaterial details, indicating something more than professional interest in each of these cases.
This made for an easy segue into fact number two. Mary was incredibly adept at her job, despite her obvious lack in bedside manner. It had nothing to do with the fact that she could hit a bulls-eye while chugging a Big Gulp, or that she kept an incredibly cool head in the most heated situation, or that she was overly dedicated to the job. Mary was actually really good at the one part she so vehemently claimed to hate; that part being the emotionality and human connection, the caring and nurturing of broken witnesses who had just lost their entire lives to circumstances outside of their control. Especially with the kids she claimed to not understand or get the point of. The kids loved her.
It was these cases that forced her to set aside her psychotic self-predication in order to subconsciously dig into the part of her that knew how people worked and what made them tick, the part that connected on an entirely different plane. Marshall had seen it on more than one occasion; the motherly embrace that had tried to shield Kenna Parnell from all the evil of the world; the protective hold Marshall had accidently stumbled upon (and then carefully backed away from after realizing both were still asleep) that kept Leo Billups' nightmares and fears at bay while he slept; the soothing, repetitive, fingers combing through the soft golden locks of Gretel Sullivan while she slept on Mary's lap, and finally, when Mary thought no one was looking, the comforting kiss she had planted on the crown of Billy Sullivan's head as he shivered against her. It had all been instinctual, intuitive if Marshall could dare to say; a part of Mary that she fervently denied existed during any conscious moment, but sprang to life against her will in a fierce 'mother bear' manner anytime one of her juvenile witnesses were threatened.
So why couldn't Mary see the role she was meant to play?
Being pregnant sucked. Period. Everything bloats, or grows, or lengthens, or stretches, or widens. Horrendous smells that humans should not have to be subjected to can be picked up from a mile away. Being on your feet for more than, oh, five minutes caused every bit of your body below the knees to ache and swell. You're always tired, even after a sacred full-night's sleep. Oh! And old women like to rub your stomach! All of them. No matter where you went, they were there, invading your personal space, asking every God-awful, repetitive, gets-old-after-the-first-five-times question possible about the alien sucking your life-force from within. It was like being old and experienced in child birth gave them some unspoken, universal right to grope a perfect stranger. In public, no less. Whoever invented child bearing must have been a sick and twisted sadist. There was nothing fun about it.
This was just a round-about way to say that following the cumulative events of the day, right down to the most recent when Oscar had ripped the adoption files to shreds, being able to finally put her feet up on the table and take a moment to finally breathe was like a trip to the spa…just with an exceedingly uncomfortable amount of back pain and ridiculously cramped, tired feet. Mary opened her eyes and stared down at the pile of shredded paper on her floor and then to the file on her table, and finally at the dog lying on the floor by the corner of the couch. With a groan, she threw her head back again and squeezed her eyes shut, mumbling, "Spirit guide," with a shake of her head. It was just by chance that the idiot dog had managed to shred every file but the faker-than-fake Templetons. One quick phone call to the adoption agency in the morning and she could have an entire new set of couple profiles on her desk by the time she clocked in for work. This is why she didn't believe in signs or religion or any other mumbo jumbo that people clung to so desperately. If you stepped back and took a deep breath, a more logical and simple solution was just as readily available.
Mary opened her eyes again and struggled to roll her body up to a sitting position on the edge of the couch. She flipped open the blue file, its edges moist and chewed, and stared down at the eight-by-ten photo paper-clipped to the first page of the couple profile. A grimace crept across her features as she took in their smiling faces and a disgusted scoff escaped her mouth. There was a small tug deep in the recesses of her mind as she thought once more about the decision she was facing. It was enough of a tug to slam the file shut and shake her head. She released a heavy sigh and rubbed her hands together as the same question that had been plaguing her since she first contacted the adoption agency began incessantly nagging her again. Was it even right?
After growing up how she had, a kid raising a kid, a degenerate alcoholic mother, and a run-away father, all of which placed her in this exact moment, she found herself back in grade school. This baby had become the kids in school that had tried to befriend her, only to get pushed away because Mary was embarrassed to showcase her dysfunctional life to the world. But how dysfunctional was it really? Jinx was on the straight and narrow, sober for a little over a year, living in her own place paid for by her very first real job. Brandi was getting married to one of Albuquerque's top citizens, and had turned from the path that her ex-drug dealing boyfriend had started her on. James Wiley Shannon, save for his extracurricular family that was slowly crawling out of the woodwork, was gone from her life for good, leaving his oldest daughter to find her own ways to deal with the daddy problems he had created. Who was really dysfunctional anymore? Mary knew, but wouldn't admit to anyone, especially herself.
She was.
She was the only dysfunctional one now. She was the one with barely any friends. She constantly pushed her family and friends away. She was unwilling to believe that they could change (despite all current evidence pointing to the contrary). She was the one carrying a bastard child fathered by a dead-beat. She was the one who would eventually be standing alone against the world. She was the one putting every bit of herself ahead of whatever was cooking inside her. And finally, she was the only one with a pathological inability to ask for or accept any help. What a depressing way to live.
Tears bit at the corners of her eyes as she struggled through this thought process, dreading another mood swing from Hell. As dysfunctional as it was, she liked her life. Every bit of it. There was nothing about it that she wanted to change. So if that was the case, why did she have this nagging guilt tugging somewhere deep in her gut every time she sat down behind these files? Was it right?
A different tug pulled at the bottom of her gut and she pushed herself off the couch and in the direction of the bathroom. Her eye caught the crooked photo frame on the wall. She paused, remembering the treasured photo that had been hidden behind the smiling faces of the Shannon women. The empty feeling of abandonment and sadness that accompanied the fading memory of a little girl's fifth birthday caused her heart to thud hollowly in her chest, only to be interrupted by the more urgent pressure from her bladder. Upon exiting the bathroom, she detoured to the kitchen to grab her gun and then trudged back to her bedroom, sighing heavily. She performed her repetitive pattern of shower, change, brush hair, brush teeth, place gun in nightstand drawer…and then paused, her hand holding her weapon inches above the manila envelope that had been forgotten- abandoned- in the drawer several weeks before. In and of itself, the envelope seemed so unassuming, bearing no other details aside from a white label with her name printed in black across the front. It was what was inside that gave her pause. Slowly, she replaced the gun to the nightstand and pulled the envelope from the drawer and sat heavily on the edge of her bed with one word echoing forever back at her.
Abandonment.
She pulled the ultrasound photos from within the envelope and stared at them for several long minutes, her eyes tracing every detail that they had memorized the first time she had looked at them. The first time she had looked at the printouts, she had felt like she had taken a shot of fear, followed by a mild chaser of excitement. This time, the guilt she had been feeling for the last several days came back in full force. One day, she would assume the kid would know it was adopted and start asking questions about its biological family. Mary was no stranger to those types of questions. She had asked them herself since she was seven years old. The two that killed were, "Why?" and "What did I do wrong?"
The guilt exploded in her stomach and she suddenly felt sick. She scoffed and stuffed the photos back in the envelope, which was then stuffed into the back of the drawer with her gun. The drawer was then slammed shut hard enough to make everything on the nightstand to shake for a moment. She pulled the covers back, climbing into bed quickly and shutting the light off. After several silent moments, she threw her blankets back. "Oscar!" she called.
The dog trotted happily into the bedroom with a shredded couple profile in his mouth. Mary watched him heave himself up onto the foot of the bed and drop the profile in her lap. She didn't have to open it to know what file it was, but she did anyway. The shredded cover pulled back to reveal the gnawed apart file and chewed up, slobbery photo of the Templetons. Mary groaned and frowned at the dog, who cocked his head to the side. Every bitter reprimand was held at bay by some sort of weight suddenly lifting from her shoulders. The frown subsided and she shrugged tossing the profile into the bathroom in the general direction of the trashcan. Oscar laid down on the empty side of the bed, Mary sunk deeply into the blankets again. "Spirit guide?" she asked disbelievingly into the dark. "Really?"
Behind her, she felt Oscar's tail begin to whip back and forth across the comforter happily.