Disclaimer: Mary and Marshall belong to David Maples. If they hadn't been misused by others I wouldn't be writing this.

Sonn of Mann – Chapter 4 – Sonnset

MARSHALL POV

Thursday late afternoon/early evening

Marshall & Abigail's

I hear Abigail's keys hit the entryway table a little harder than usual The gun safe opens and closes. Good thing she isn't armed for this discussion. I chuckle. It's ridiculous to think my sweet Texan fiancé would shoot me. That was Mary's style.

"Glad you could get away, hon." I rise to greet her. Her expression is knit with concern.

"When you called I thought I heard passion in your voice. I figured you wanted me home so you could have your way with me." She put her hands on either side of my face. "But I can see that isn't the case."

This isn't the booty call she thought it might be. But under the worry, there's something else. Frustration? Irritation? Surely I'm imagining it. We've postponed the wedding several times and I know she's wary of another delay.

"I got lucky honeybunch. We got the perps. With the case sewed up, I could get out of there." She puts her arms around me and reaches up to smooth the furrows in my forehead. "You sounded so . . . . It sounded like there was something urgent. Is everyone in your family okay?" Ah, there's my sweet thoughtful wife-to-be. "

They're fine." I put my arms around her and tangle my fingers in her hair. We fit together perfectly."I got some good news today. It will require some changes, some adjustment, but . . . ." That's a start, and a hell of an understatement.

Abigail is immediately on guard. "Marshall, I am not putting off our wedding again! We are going to be married next month come hell or high water."

I certainly hope so.

She looks me in the eye and asks, "Is it Mary?"

I push her away so I could see her face. Is she serious? "No, why would you say that?" For the last few months every time I have to stay at work or there's a problem with the wedding arrangements, she thinks its Mary's fault. Whenever a female witness calls me, she thinks it's Mary. As far as Abigail is concerned every bump in our relationship or the wedding plans is Mary's fault. We've talked about this time and again, but she continues to blame Mary. This close to the wedding she should be sure of my love. Things happen. Not everything is Mary's doing.

"Around the precinct they said . . . ." she stopped. "The detectives said the only time they saw you distraught was when Mary was hurt or in trouble. I thought it had to be something like that for you to want to talk to me so urgently." I can't miss her rueful grimace and eye roll when she says Mary's name.

"No. It isn't Mary." Under my breath I mutter, "Not that I would know."

Evidently I didn't say that as quietly as I thought. "What do you mean you wouldn't know?" Abigail demanded. "You work together, don't you?"

I sigh wondering how to explain the barrier that had descended between Mary and I. "Since you asked me to," I looked her in the eye, trying to convey the sacrifice I made for her. "I've limited the time I spend with Mary. We work separately. Other than the job, she doesn't even talk to me."

I watch her to see if she appreciates the sacrifice I made. Instead Abigail draws back and gives me a sassy smile. "Your office must be much quieter. I bet it's running much smoother. All the rest of the marshals must appreciate that you finally muzzled the bitch.," she smirked breezily. "Everything that comes out of that woman's mouth is sarcastic, demeaning, bitter or profane." That used to be true, but not since Norah's birth. Even before Norah I've observed Mary's compassion, quick thinking, good shooting and accurate witness assessments. I miss that. I miss her.

Mary wouldn't mind being called a bitch, but I'm affronted for her. Abigail doesn't notice my grimace of distaste. "So, if no one is injured, and you seem fine," she looked me over saucily. "Where's the fire?" She puts her small soft hand around my waist and gives an encouraging squeeze. We can resolve this quickly and not delay the wedding. Again.

"C'mon, sugar britches. You look lower than a gopher hole. You know you can tell me anything."

I'm nervous. When I hesitate, trying to figure out where to start her eyes harden to stony points. "It is Mary." She states it flatly as if she had proof. As if it were fact. "That's why you moan her name in your sleep."

I say her name in my sleep? That is news to me. "Abigail," I exclaim. "You think I'm cheating on you with Mary? How in the hell that could that be construed as 'good news?' Don't you hear anything I say while I'm awake?" Exasperated, I clasp her shoulders and grit my teeth forcing her to look me in the eye. "I told you, I barely see Mary. It would be impossible to have an affair when we are seldom in the same place at the same time." I couldn't help it. My voice rose to a shout. I dial it down to a conversational volume. "I chose you, Abigail," I remind her. "I chose you, after knowing you little more than a year. I chose you over my best friend of the last ten years."

What the hell? Is Abigail that insecure? "How dare you attribute any difficulty in your life to Mary? She is not the problem here." Despite my efforts, I'm chagrined to find myself shouting again.

Abigail is shocked at my anger. She reluctantly nods. "Maybe," she half agrees. "So, what is? What on God's green earth besides that she-devil could have you this upset?" Upset? Before the shouting I was doing my calm Marshall persona.

She devil? Really? If this woman knew me she would understand how much I owe Mary. Being partnered with Mary has changed me, shaped me into the man and marshal I am today. She's not all rough edges. Her pessimism and my optimism complement each other. Mary's brashness and my follow through have made us a stellar WITSEC team. I could tell her about the real Mary Shannon, the vulnerable seven year old in a gorgeous womanly body but Mary would shoot me.

She gives me a skeptical look, her brow furrows. She's worried. I had cut Mary out of my life, and it left a painful hole. Putting aside my anger at her accusations, I decide there was no good way to say it, and I took the Mary option and blurted. "A son. I have a son. His name is Martin and he's almost four years old."

"What?" Abigail squeaked. I'd never heard her squeak before. If it wasn't so serious I would have laughed. Disbelief and anger alternate on her face. "What do you mean you have a son? How could you have a son?"

I can tell Abigail thinks this is some mistake. A misunderstanding of terms. She starts talking slowly, quietly as if talking down a jumper on a rooftop. "I know there are many things about your job that you can't tell me, but having a son . . ." She shakes her head. "I thought I knew you. We shared everything, our past romantic partners, our families, black sheep and all." As the life altering enormity of my son hit her, she shouted. "How could you have forgotten to tell me you have a son?" Her breasts rise and fall quickly in agitation.

I speak softly, hands still on her shoulders to calm her. "Because I just found out today. Because I just found out," I turn my wrist and check my watch," four hours ago."

She's not the only one who has talked someone off a ledge. I drop my hands, take a step back and hold both her hands in mine. "Remember when we talked about starting a family – the sooner the better?" This really is a good thing. She has to see that. "We've just gotten a head start." I smile, hoping she will return it.

Her skeptical look tells me she's not convinced.

"I have done everything to prove my love for you. You are my first priority." I proclaim earnestly. "I asked my best friend, the woman who has saved my life more times than I can count to release me. And she did. You know that. You need to believe it with all your heart because it's true."

I took a deep breath and pause, letting my words sink in. Abigail had to get off her Mary-go-round and confront the reality of my son. She stood still, quiet but confused. Divergent emotions are contorting her face.

"Now I need you to do something for me. Show your love. Accept my son as part of our lives, our family."

Abigail didn't seem to hear me. She was still stuck on the fact that I had a son. "How could you not know? Who's the mother? Why didn't you know? Why are you so damn sure you're the father?"

"One question at a time, love" I objected, forcing a warm calming tone. Despite her hurtful accusations, I can't think of Martin without smiling. "Let's sit." I pull her close to me on the couch.

"Let me begin at the beginning." She wouldn't look at me, but her breathing had slowed. Her arms were crossed and her head is down but she's listening. "Years ago I took a course in critical thinking. You know how I was always taking classes at UNM before we met? The TA and I hit it off, but there are rules about instructors dating students, even adult students. A few years later I ran into her and she," I pause, "Let's just say she was still interested."

"She must have been pretty damn interested if you have a child together." Abigail retorted angrily.

I nod. Describing Dana as interested was like calling the ocean wet. "We," I stopped, searching out the right word, "uh, dated, briefly. I ended it."

"Ended it? How?" Abigail demanded. She'd dropped her arms, leaning toward me.

"She called, but I didn't call back. Her calls stopped and I thought that it was over." He sat up. "It was over as far as I was concerned, but as it turns out, it was just beginning for Dana."

"Dana," Abigail mouthed her name as if tasting something sour. "You never mentioned a Dana."

"Our relationship was just a blip." I assure her. "She was looking for a good time, nothing serious." And that's what it was. Dana was wild, sexy, unrestrained, inventive and damn scary. She took chances I wasn't willing to take, and the result was Martin.

"She never told you? That's . . . that's unbelievable."

"I know. I find it hard to believe too." Later, when Abigail calms down, I can explain Dana's reasons.

"It's true. She never told me until today." I nodded turning to her.

Like a flash fire Abigail's wonder turns to anger. "Why the hell now? Why the month before our wedding? What kind of slut waits three years to inform the father of her child? Did all the other guys turn her down? Are you the only one to fall for her baby daddy line?" I pull back. Who is this Abigail? Dana didn't deserve this. Once my Southern Methodist grad has the facts, she'll understand.

"Abigail," I implore. "Dana is dying, and she wants to put my name on the boy's birth certificate."

"Dying? Are you sure she isn't lying about that too?" I didn't think it possible for Abigail to be as cynical as Mary.

"She's not lying about Martin. I met him." I stand and look down at her. "My God Abigail, the woman has stage 4 ovarian cancer. Where is your compassion?" I take a few steps back, distracting myself by running my fingers through my hair. I didn't expect this reaction.

"How do you know? Have you acquired a medical degree when I wasn't looking?" She's disdainful as if she's questioning a suspect, not talking to her beloved.

I stop pacing and face her. "I saw her today when I met Martin. You don't travel with a hospice nurse and a trunk full of medication if you're healthy," I yell. "She has cancer," I shout. "It's metastasized. She's already picked a hospice for her last days. You think she's doing that for fun?"

Abigail looks abashed. She may have her doubts, but she should know I'd never lie to her. She crosses her arms again. After a few minutes consideration she looks up at me. "All she wants is your name on his birth certificate?"

"She didn't even ask for that. Dana just said she hoped I would consider doing it. That way if there are any health issues or if Martin decides he wants to know, the information would be there."

Abigail sat back, and let her arms drop. "If he's really your son, I suppose you could do that." she hesitates. "Even if your name is on the birth certificate, no one would need to know. If that's what you want."

"No," I snapped. Doesn't she get it? He's mine. How could I abandon my son? "That's not what I want. He's my son, my SON," I entreat, willing her to understand. "I want people to know he's mine. I want to take him to school. I want to teach him to ride. You know I've always wanted children, but a son? He's a gift. I've already missed so much. We've missed so much." Briefly my imagination wanders to riding - a sturdy pony for him and a spirited stallion for me.

I stretch out my hands, enveloping hers in supplication. "We can bring him into this loving relationship we've built," I urged. "We can give him a family, my family, your family, our family. Something he'd never have if it wasn't for us. Something only we can give him."

Abigail pulls her hands from mine. "Did she ask you to do that? She did, didn't she?"

"No Abigail. No." Abigail has never met Dana but she thinks she knows her. "She didn't ask me to, I want to. I have to. He's a Mann." My final argument doesn't make much sense, but it's true. I stand and start to pace again. Surely once we get to know him, she'll see this will work. "That's what we need to do. I don't want him to be raised by strangers. We're his parents." Abigail pushes herself back and looks at me as if I were the stranger.

My eyes seek hers, but she avoids them. "Honey," I rub my hands up and down her arms. "I understand that you need time to grasp this, but we don't have time. Dana leaves the day after tomorrow. We need to tell her we'll be Martin's parents before she gives him up for adoption. Think about it. I know we can be good parents," I plead. "When we have our own children, we'll have some practice, and they'll have a big brother to look out for them. It's darn near perfect."

"Perfect. Right." Abigail drawls out the last word sarcastically.

"Love isn't finite," I remind her. "The more you have the more you can give. I know you can find it in your heart to love this little boy as much as you will love our own child, as much as you love me. Just come with me tomorrow. Meet him. Please."

Abigail lurches to her feet and grabs her car keys. Without another word, she leaves the house. Like me, she often drives to put her feelings, her thoughts, in order. And tonight she had a lot to sort through.

I return to the couch and gaze at the ceiling praying I know Abigail as well as I think I do.

A/N: This story is told from Marshall and Mary's POV. This is Marshall's story so most of it is his POV.