A/N: I've been ultrabusy at work this week so I haven't been able to update as I've wanted to do. This one might run longer than the holiday, folks. Oops. Sorry. I intended to finish by Halloween, but we may not do so. Sigh. Stick with me. There will be a couple of updates today, and I might possibly get them done by the end of the Witching Hour tonight.....

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
~Emily Dickinson

She'd dreamed of Marshall all night long, and in those dreams, he'd done much more than get to first base. More like knocked the damn thing clean out of the park, then stepped back up to the plate for another swing. When the alarm clock woke Mary, she'd been hugging the spare pillow and thinking very seriously about going down the hall to Marshall's room and pouncing on him to see if the reality could in any way match up to the fantasies she'd just been pulled from. Because, damn it, I am all keyed up now, and it's going to be a very, very long day.... She tried to imagine Marshall's face if she kicked open his bedroom door and satisfied this sudden unexpected longing for his body. Either he'd be ridiculously happy or really alarmed; it's too early in the morning to figure out which. And while I might find either one of those fun, he might not. She groaned and dragged herself down the hall to the bathroom and into a cold shower.

---

Once Marshall had finally told Mary goodnight, gone to his room and closed the door, he simply leaned back against it with his eyes shut, one hand coming up to cover his face. Despite the solid wood of the door, his sensitive hearing could still make out the little sounds of Mary moving around, getting ready to go to bed. He could discern the tiny squeaks of the pull-out couch's bedsprings as she tossed and turned, beating pillows into submission in her nightly ritual before falling asleep. Finally there was silence. He continued to stand stock-still in his position against the door for another moment, and then he walked to his bed and sat down.

He stared over at the wall of bookshelves across from his bed without really seeing any of the titles or familiar and beloved objects housed there. His mind was twisting through the unexpected turn the events of the night had taken as he tried to understand what had just happened to him, to Mary, to them together in the living symbiosis that was so vital to them both.

Part of him was dancing, absolutely funky-chicken, moonwalk, electric-slide dancing. That part of him had been waiting, mostly patiently, and in absolute silence since he had been shot to kiss Mary again. And there was no duress this time. Neither of us was bleeding; nobody had a gun to either of us. That is always good. And as for the actual kissing.... Words failed him. He, Marshall, the man of so many words, so many facts, so many descriptions, had no words for the way he'd felt when she'd opened her mouth that little bit, and he'd realized that somehow they'd passed from playing a game into something unexpected, something filled with infinitely more risk and reward. He had no words, no way to translate what had happened to his heart, his head, his body when he'd put his arms around her, his mouth on hers, and he'd heard that little sound come from her. And when he'd slipped his hand under that shirt that was his own against skin like sun-warmed silk, all he could think of as his hand had closed over the cotton-covered mound of her breast was, "It's Mary, it's Mary, it's Mary...." a chant, a litany, a prayer.

Not all of him was in ecstasy, though. Another part of him was doing its very best to throttle the dancing fool inside him. Because she pushed you away, didn't she? And you saw that hot fear in her eyes, didn't you? He'd known instantly that it was coming, had known she was going to do it even before her hand had come up to push him back. He'd felt the jolt go through her the moment when she started remembering who she was with, when all her fears jumped back to the forefront, and the pleading confusion in her eyes had shredded him.

Because it was so good. And we felt so right. That was more right that any other kiss I've ever had in my whole life. On some level, he wanted to go back down the hall and sweep her up in his arms like Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind and overcome all her fears with kisses and caresses. But this isn't Hollywood, and everybody knows how well that story turned out, anyway. Besides, Mary would just kick my ass if I tried to sweep her up anywhere. She's not a sweep-up and carry-off sort of woman, actually. Marshall tried to picture Mary in a hoop skirt and the image brought a much needed moment of amusement to him.

I could never do that to her in any case. She's not ready to see it yet. So, tomorrow, it will be back to the old routine. He sighed and glanced over to the closet where his Halloween costume was hiding in a box on a shelf. God, I do get so tired of these masks sometimes. I really wish they were only something I had to wear once a year.

---

Stop staring at his damn mouth. Pay attention to the words coming out of it. Jesus, Mary! You're acting like a horny sixteen-year old! Mary snapped her gaze away from Marshall's lips up to his eyes. "What did you say, now?" She rubbed at the back of her neck in a distracted manner. She'd been having this problem all morning. She was abnormally aware of him, of the clean scent of his aftershave in the car as she rode to work with him, of the timbre of his voice, of the way he tilted his head down to look at her and smiled, of the warmth of his arm against hers through the sleeves of their jackets as they rode up the elevator together. Now they were in the conference room together talking over the day's assignments, and she kept losing her train of thought.

Marshall smirked, leaned over and waved his hand in front of her eyes. "Earth to Mary Shannon, calling Mary Shannon. You stayed up waaay too late last night, young lady. I think your babysitter should have put you to bed earlier." His tone was smug.

Mary smirked right back provocatively. "Yeah well, you see, I had this date with this really lame guy who wanted to make out, and he wouldn't get out so I could get to bed, so I humored him as long as I could stand it...."

"Ha!" scoffed Marshall. "That's not what I heard at all! I heard you jumped the poor guy and then he practically had to claw his way free and run like hell to get away from you."

"Oh yeah? Well, I didn't hear any complaints about the kissing from where I was, buddy."

Marshall opened his mouth to reply, but Stan walked in with a sheaf of papers, so they had to satisfy themselves with glaring at each other with confusion and irritation.

Was I really too forward? Did I really push him to do something he didn't want to do? Ohshitohshitohshit.... Mary's thoughts spiraled downwards, and she doodled little flaming skulls with kissing lips on the edges of her notepad as she began to see every event from the previous night in a different light, see herself as an aggressor. Fucking hell, I wish I'd just stayed home with Jinx and Brandi. At least that way, I would have known where the landmines were....

Marshall, meanwhile, was in a funk of his own. He always worried about being compared to Mary's many, many men. While he'd never had any complaints from the women he dated, knew that most of them in fact had enjoyed themselves tremendously based on their responses and their comments, he had always secretly feared that with Mary he would somehow not measure up. Well, hell. So she was just being polite, huh? Pity kisses. Wonderful. Nothing like that to take the magic right out of a moment. Great. Excuse me, Stan. Can I go outside on the balcony a minute? Yeah? I need to shoot myself through the head now. Thanks.

Stan noticed that the mood which had been bright and cheerful when his two Marshals had arrived had deteriorated with even more celerity than usual. With his usual wisdom, he chose not to comment. He had learned long ago with this pair that these storms blew up for reasons that he really, truly didn't need to know or even want to know about. Frequently, knowing about the reasons for some of them would cause him, Mary, or Marshall or a member of their immediate families to wind up in federal prison. Therefore, Stan delivered his information, made a minute of small talk, and got the hell out. He even went so far as to summon Eleanor into the safety of his office until he saw Marshall and Mary enter the elevator and the doors slide shut to enclose them. Really, you couldn't be too careful, sometimes.

The rest of the day was a growling, sulking, passively or actively aggressive and hostile mess. Snide remarks, deadly and barbed, were flung. Lines in the sand were drawn and recklessly crossed. Tempers flared. As Mary and Marshall visited the witnesses on their list for the day, each breathed a sigh of relief when the two fractious Marshals loaded up in the Tahoe and pulled away. Even Benedicio, the 28-year old hit man, killer of five and tool of torture and persuasion who had an entire syndicate looking for him, and his girlfriend Maria-Teresa who'd chosen to come into the program with him rather than face life without him (and possibly be tortured to death as a tool to get him or a source of information), had embraced when Mary and Marshall had left and said, "Dios mio, what the fuck is WRONG with those two?"

Mary had been out of the Tahoe in a heartbeat and heading to reclaim her car from Marshall's house once they arrived, but not before she delivered one final parting shot. "Well, Marshall, I'd love to tell you that it's all been real fun, but I can't. I mean, I guess it's been real, but fun, well, fun it ain't."

Marshall was just as angry as she, just as hurt and irritated by the day of doubts and hostility, and even though he usually went out of his way to avoid ruffling her feathers, he was tired and his emotions were on edge. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever. Take your cliches home, why don't you? Brandi and Jinx will probably find that one fresh and/or amusing. I'll see you tomorrow."

She stared after him while he stalked up the three steps to his porch and disappeared inside. He did not look back once, not even to see if the Probe cranked. Mary felt the tiny little fingers of hurt that had been wiggling under the anger all day expand and grow. He always waits until I leave, always checks to make sure this damn car will crank. He always stands right there on that porch leaning against the post and waves to me.... For some reason, she felt her eyes well up, and that made her even angrier. She wrenched the keys in the ignition and, of course, heard nothing.

She slammed her hand against the hard plastic of the steering wheel again and again, relieving some of the pent-up stress and tension with the futile motion. "Motherfucker!" she screamed at the car. "I should have known! And why the fuck not! Everything else to day has gone straight to hell..." She leaned down on the steering wheel and folded her arms across it.

I am not going to cry. I am not going to sit outside Marshall Mann's house and cry because my stupid damn car won't crank and because he didn't want to kiss me last night and he thinks I'm pushy. I am not going to cry because my best friend is mad at me and we fought all day long and he went in the house and left me out here with this piece of shit and he didn't even turn around. I am not going to cry. I am not going to cry. I am not going to.... dammit....

The tears were leaking out of her eyes, and she raised her head to swipe at them in miserable fury. When she did, she saw Marshall rounding the hood of the car. His eyes caught hers, and she knew he saw the tears.

God, there is no justice in this world. None. NONE.

He opened the door of the car, and she looked up at him and began with all the anger she could force, "What? It won't fucking crank. I am going to be out of here the minute I can get it to start...." and he reached down and pulled her out of the car and up into his arms. It was a hug, warm and comforting, the hug of her friend and partner, and she felt it restoring something vital inside her all the way down to her toes. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed back, pressing her face into his shoulder a moment, indulging. Then she shoved him away. He allowed it.

"Just come in the house. I already ordered pizza. We can eat, and then I'll take you home. That thing isn't going anywhere tonight." And we need to talk. I can't take another day like today. Not ever.

"Since you're offering me food and since I'm stranded, I accept." Because I need to talk to you. I don't know how to say what I want to say, but I have to know if what happened last night wasn't okay with you, if I went too far like I always do, if I've messed things with us up for real this time.

They walked back toward his house silently, each one lost in trying to figure out how to have the conversation both of them felt needed to happen but neither one of them really knew how to begin.

More on the way momentarily. R&R if you like.