A/N: I thought about changing this chapter to reflect Abby and Marshall's spa date (for which she surely deserves to die), but this particular scene was half written and far too delicious to discard. Oh, well, maybe next chapter. Sorry for the slow updates but I seem to have a particular talent for starting WIPs right before my real life goes bezerk. In fact I am hurriedly posting this before leaving for Nashville so forgive any mistakes. It has not had the proofreading job it and you deserve but I was determined to get it up tonight. As always, enjoy and if you do, please feed my review addiction.

Mary and Marshall strolled through the crowded midway of the traveling fair that was currently occupying most of one of the local parks. Less than a year ago, they had brought a witness into the program who had worked at just such an establishment in his previous life, and given the nature of carny society, the fair was a significant security risk. When they called him earlier to warn him about the situation, he failed to answer, necessitating a trip to the fair itself.

Marshall looked around with interest in between scanning the booths for either their witness, Billy Bachman, or any of his prior acquaintances. Every so often he glanced down discretely at a sheet of photos of Billy's known associates. Mary was also on the hunt, but in her case, she was barely containing her irritation after her umpteenth collision with a sticky child or inebriated adult.

"Asshole," she muttered after one such collision left her with ketchup smeared on her shirt. "Why do people like these things. First you gorge yourself on food of unknown origin or get drunk on weak beer, then you get on one of the rides and spin yourself sick or lose your shirt playing some ridiculous game that's fixed before you start. How is that fun? I just don't get it."

"I would have though you'd feel right at home here," Marshall said.

"You'd better not be implying I belong in the freak show, because I am armed and will shoot you," she snarled back.

"Well, the thought had crossed my mind but I was referring to the carnys. A whole community of people who divide the world into themselves and the next mark waiting to be taken. It just -"

"So, what? I'm not a freak show but I am a con? Thanks loads, numbnuts," Mary interrupted as she started to show signs of her irritation turning to outright anger.

"You know, you really should let me finish my sentences. I was going to say that a con is the last thing you are, but you have to admit you have a similar world view. The whole me against the idiots thing you specialize in merits the comparison."

"That's not a world view, it's a fact."

"QED." Marshall said.

"What?"

"It's Latin for -"

"Not you, jackass, you know I quit listening whenever you start spouting another language," Mary said as she pointed at a distant booth. "Over there. Please tell me that's our idiot, Billy."

"It does bear a certain resemblance to our wayward witness."

"Good, because I could really enjoy handing out a good ass kicking right now."

"Remember, the powers that be frown on it when you injure the witnesses."

"Can I at least drag him out of here by the scruff of his scraggly neck?"

"I think that might be allowed," Marshall said as they made their way over to the ball-in-the-basket game where the hoodie wearing figure was standing.

In the end, Mary had to contain her aggression. The person they spotted turned out to be just a young local sporting the same sort of meagre goatee as their witness, and despite careful searching they did not find any of his known associates manning the rides or booths. Marshall's gift of a sugar smothered funnel cake did, however, lighten her mood, an improvement that lasted only as long as it took them to get back to their car.

"I think I'll bring Abby back here this weekend," he said as he slid behind the wheel.

"Whatever," Mary muttered, her spirits plummeting at the mention of his odiously perky girlfriend.

"She says she doesn't like thrill rides but I think I can talk her into one."

"Why? Does the thought of her squealing and clinging to you make you feel like an alpha male?"

"No, that's what my gun is for," Marshall said in an effort to lighten the mood. "Besides, I think she'll have fun."

"Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll fall out of the ferris wheel," Mary said under her breath.

Marshall rolled his eyes. "I heard that. Would it be asking to much for you to not actively hate her?"

Mary didn't answer. Her last statement had been all it took to launch her mind into a very gratifying fantasy ...

Marshall strode though the Midway, a sappy smile on his face and Abby giggling beside him, one of her arms looped through his and the other clutching a plush toy won by Marshall at the shooting gallery game. She tries to drag him toward the Ferris wheel, but he points at the Slingshot ride instead. She looks over at the ride, two pairs of gondolas on either end of a huge, furiously rotating arm, and gives a dramatic shiver.

Not to be deterred, Marshall, no doubt able to accurately quote accident statistics in his quest to convince her of the ride's safety, coaxes her until she agrees to try it. Finally she consents, clinging even tighter to his arm in a demonstration of what she will need to make it through the experience.

They slowly make their way to the head of the line and are buckled in side by side but with separate harnesses. As soon as they are secured, Abby again grabs Marshall's arm and lays her head on his shoulder, simpering like a silly, frilly girl.

At this, Mary's lip curls in disgust, causing Marshall to give her a worried glance, but she never notices, so deeply is she engrossed in her imaginings.

Finally, the ride begins to move. Slow at first, it gradually picks up speed, causing the gondolas to swing out and twirl around their central axes each time they reach the apex of the ride. The rapid motion generates enough force to pull Abby's arm away from Marshall but she doesn't seem to mind, having given in to the thrill of the motion.

Then, suddenly, just as their carriage reaches its highest point and begins to whip around, there is an ominous crack and the pin holding Abby's harness breaks in half and she is flung from her seat, looking for all the world like a stone released from the slingshot that gave the ride its name. Her panicked scream tears through the balmy twilight as fairgoers on the ground scatter beneath her, ducking for cover as they try to avoid her impact.

But thanks to some trick of aerodynamics or acrobatics (because Abby was surely doing her best to fly without wings), she managed to clear all the open spaces and her extended trajectory seemed aimed straight at one of the best stocked games booths. Marshall allowed himself a moment of hope when he saw the huge collection of stuffed prizes. Perhaps all that synthetic fur and cotton batting would serve to cushion her landing.

It was not to be. She tumbles headfirst into the mass of pastel bears, bunnies and ducks, narrowly missing the game vendor himself, and does not emerge. As soon as his gondola reaches the ground, Marshall tears off his harness and runs over to save her, only to stare in horror at what he finds. Her motionless body has come to rest in the suggestive embrace of a huge, pink, polka-dotted bear that serves as the unattainable first prize in this particular game of skill. Legs spread, skirt rucked up, and the bear's shiny, button nose peeking out over her shoulder, the tableau looks like bestiality as imagined by Walt Disney ...

"Mary ... Mary!" Marshall shouted at her.

"What?" she asked, still smiling at her graphic mental images.

"I asked you if you could do me a favor and at least try to like Abby a little. Should I take your lack of response as a negative?"

"Huh, no. Abby's fine, I even find her rather amusing at times," she told him with her best approximation of an innocent smile.