A/N: I love hearing in people's reviews how they read the chapters – from a computer, a phone, a tablet, etc. I don't know why; I think it just makes it more personal for me to picture real people on the other end enjoying my work. It is humbling. :)

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Marshall's difficult morning with Simon the Suspicious combined with Mary's less-than-lovely get-together with Mrs. Anders meant that both were angling for a break come lunchtime. Leaving Stan to munch on his usual boxed salad from the deli down the street, Marshall escorted Mary to their favorite Mexican restaurant where he, for once, forgot about being a gentleman and ordered himself a margarita. Mary glowered sullenly at him the whole time, watching him finger the salt on the ridge of the glass and sip almost daintily through his straw. The water she was being forced to gargle paled in comparison.

"You're shameful, you know that," Mary accused darkly through the already shadowed bistro, their table lit by an overhead lamp. "Drinking that right in front of me when you know I can't have any and am practically dying to…"

"While I commend your responsibility, I think I am entitled to a treat now and again," her partner proclaimed with another measured taste "With the way you're masticating those tortilla chips like garbage grinding at the county dump, there aren't going to be any of those left for me."

"Nice visual," Mary was sarcastic as she continued crunching, noticing only now that he'd mentioned it that she had devoured over half the bowl. "And, why don't you put your pinky up and have done with it?" she was referring to his girlish way of drinking so skillfully. "Seriously, doofus, this isn't a tea party."

"I should hope not," Marshall made no note of her jab and downed a bigger gulp just to prove he could behave in a more manly fashion. "With your aversion to the beverage."

"Ugh," Mary choked out gutturally. "Don't remind me," she didn't want to think about the nasty, hot drink she had been ingesting as a substitute for coffee over the last eight months.

At the request, Marshall went silent and nabbed a few corn chips while he had the chance, digging the corners through his singular bowl of salsa, as Mary's was nearly empty. The hustle and bustle of the restaurant was comforting to the woman – loud enough to discourage any sort of meaningful discussion, but quiet enough that they could still hear one another speak without resorting to yelling over busy waiters and noisy little kids in their booths.

However, Mary should've known that no matter what the location or the level of the din, Marshall was not one to hold back when he had something he wanted to talk about. Now, apparently, was no exception.

"So…" he initiated, popping in another chip while they waited for their orders to arrive. He started out with something deceptively neutral, "I was a tad surprised you wanted to lunch here. After that monstrous burrito you consumed yesterday, I would've thought that Mexican food would be off your list."

Mary shrugged, not spotting the trap; as she was too busy eating, "Mango wants what it wants."

"Glad to see that's catching on," Marshall sounded pleased. "I didn't ask how things went with you and Mango this morning. I assumed the meeting was fine…"

"You make it sound like he pulled up a chair and had a say-so in where he gets flung once I pop him," the blonde didn't care for his phrasing, but mostly she was annoyed that he had brought to the forefront a theme she didn't want to hash out. "He stayed still and silent, just to dispel that idea."

Instead of meddling right away, Marshall latched onto something completely different, "He?"

Even in the hazy atmosphere, Mary could make out her friend raising his eyebrows, like he suddenly believed she knew something that she had not shared with him. Mary had never considered the word 'he' as some kind of clue; it was a throwaway pronoun to replace 'Mango' until she dragged it out again.

But, deep down, she had always had a gut feeling regarding the sex of her child. Well, the Harmon's child. He, should it be one, would fit right in with Trevor and Hunter.

"You dropping a hint here?" Marshall immediately became curious when Mary slumped her eyes to the food in front of her, although it was fast disappearing. "Not up to your usual subtlety, but…"

"Stand down, Poindexter," she shook her head, not knowing which bothered her more – that she thought she possessed any sort of intuition, or that Marshall had roped her into conferring about the adoption. "Mango is still just a Mango as far as I'm concerned. I don't know anything; it's just a word."

"Uh-huh…" coyly, the taller eyed his partner with stealth, like he knew she was avoiding admitting her instincts. "Right. So…this morning," back to that. "How did it go with – it's Patricia, isn't it?"

Odd, how he knew the counselor's name, but nothing about the individuals Mary was sending her child to in nothing short of a Fed-Ex package.

"Yes," Mary gave him kudos for recalling Mrs. Anders. "And…whatever. Status quo."

But, Marshall was too smart not to realize that Mary was being purposefully vague. Perhaps it was his role as her best friend, as he had always been able to read her better than anyone, but whatever the reason, he was definitely zeroing in on the way she refused to face him, scratched the back of her neck, and started crunching her appetizer louder than was necessary.

"Really? Status quo?" he pushed.

"Isn't that what I said?" she was growing sulky as she granted him the tiniest peek at her green eyes, dulled in the darkened light.

"I just can't help noticing…"

"There's nothing you can't help noticing," Mary did her best to make it sound like a bad thing, but it was hard to pretend in that way. "You're always creeping after me and sticking your nose where it doesn't belong," if only he'd known that Stan had spied too, and he could've defended himself.

"I'm just taking an interest," he promised, displaying the almost aggravating nobility he always did. "When we talked on the phone, you mentioned settling on a couple. Who are they?"

"Nobody," Mary rebutted childishly.

"Somehow, I doubt that…"

"They're the Harmons," she could reveal that much. "From Providence," now was as good a time as any if they were going to do this.

And Marshall, brain that he was, knew exactly what this was the state capital of.

"Providence?" he inquired, forgetting all about the margarita he'd cherished at the outset. "Providence, as in…Rhode Island?"

"Something tells me that you know another Providence in Zimbabwe or somewhere," Mary grumbled to avoid him connecting the dots. "Did you know it's 'The Ocean State'?"

Flummoxed by her apparent knowledge, Marshall simply nodded, "I…I did, actually. Also known as the 'Creative Capital' and 'Beehive of Industry…'"

"Oh, Jesus..." she readjusted herself in her chair, feigning annoyance with his fountain of information, when in reality she knew he was going to put the puzzle together any minute.

And, he didn't disappoint, "Aren't you supposed to meet this couple?"

"And if I am?"

"Well…I mean…" he stammered before coming to his question. "How are you going to get there?"

Mary swallowed hard, wishing their entrées would arrive so that she could have something else to do with her mouth and hands; she was feeling very twitchy. Sometimes – not often, very rarely – she found herself able to really be honest with Marshall, and he typically accepted her forthrightness for what it was without expecting more down the road. He thrived when she acted so humane, and never wanted to do anything to ward her off behaving as such again – as needling her about her feelings would.

Maybe this was one of those times. Mary could present her cockamamie notion to travel the extra five hours from Philadelphia to Providence so she could have a sit down with the Harmons, Marshall by her side.

Or, no. Maybe she could leave that part out, depending upon how he reacted. Knowing Marshall, he wouldn't expect being allowed to tag along until Mary gave him the go-ahead.

When she looked at him, he was waiting serenely, his hands folded under his chin, his elbows on the table. You would never know how thirsty he was for her to give him some kind of minimal insight into her very confidential world.

"I was thinking that…"

When Mary had to pause to gather herself, Marshall urged her onward, "That we're going to be back east anyway?"

"Right, and it would be more convenient if we could just…"

"Well, hey sugar bug!"

Mary almost fell out of her chair. Indeed, she had to throw out one of her newly-pudgy hands to steady herself on the table as she digested that Abigail was standing above them, a towering form above Mary's hunched one.

What in the hell was she doing here? Didn't she have a job to do – her own lunch plans? Had she been tracking Marshall like some crazy jealous girlfriend, or was it mere coincidence? Mary was willing to vote for the former, but knowing Abigail, it was wholly innocent, if as equally irritating and terrible timing on top of it.

At least Mary didn't feel entirely snowed when Marshall appeared surprised as well. He had the presence of mind to stand up and greet the detective with a light kiss, a sight that Mary did her best to block out. While they were busy smooching, she took care to right herself so she didn't look so skittish.

"I…I didn't know you were stopping by," Marshall remarked with a hasty glance to his partner. "How'd you know I was here?"

"I called the office and tracked you down," Abigail drawled, floaty and free as ever. "Stan said he thought ya'll had stopped in here for a bite, and just my luck – here you are!"

Mary didn't really consider herself anything resembling 'lucky' if Abigail was around, but because Marshall was present she refrained from too much sarcasm. But, she wouldn't be able to hold out forever, especially if Abigail insisted on joining them – which she did, dragging a chair over from the closest unoccupied table.

"Looks like you had a craving for a more stimulating beverage…" the brunette pointed out, noticing Marshall's margarita glass as she shimmied closer to him so she was practically on his lap. And then, as though Mary had only just appeared out of thin air, "Hey, Mary!"

The most she could manage was an incline of her head, "Abigail."

"It's been awhile!" she trumpeted, not even acknowledging Mary's frostiness, but Marshall suddenly looked distinctly uneasy. "How is pregnancy treating you?"

Mary would've loved not to dignify this with a response, unexpectedly put-out that her time with her friend was being cut short because his girlfriend was so unnaturally clingy. To the innocent bystander, it might look as though Mary were the needy one, given the way she turned icy at Abigail's appearance, but the inspector would never view it that way.

"This kid doesn't exactly take it easy on its housing," the blonde settled on. "It beats its feet like it's trying to drum its way out of my belly."

"Sounds like Mango is an active one!"

Marshall cringed before Abigail had even finished her sentence, knowing immediately that she had nowhere near the insight into Mary that he did. You couldn't expect it of her; the two women were far from close, but he knew the gap was going to have to be bridged in some way if he was ever to have a future with both of them. Nonetheless, he didn't take any pleasure in seeing the, first disbelief and then rage flit across Mary's features.

Why or how, rational or irrational, the man would bet his life that she was not happy he had passed on their little nickname to Abigail.

Mary covered her fury by trying to make the other woman feel dumb, "Who?"

"Marshall told me that's the moniker you've been throwing around!" Abigail was undeterred, either unaware of how Mary was boiling underneath or choosing to ignore it. "Personally, I would've gone with something more traditional, but I'm no stickler!"

She was joking, of course she was joking, but it was grating Mary's nerves, and she bored right into Marshall's rapidly frantic blue eyes, telling him without words in no uncertain terms that he was going to get it later.

"The moniker the big dork here has been throwing around," she corrected, taking a pointlessly large swallow of her water. "Not me."

Mary was beginning to feel hot and prickly all over, like she had hives or was coming down with the flu. Most days, she found Abigail to be insufferably cheerful, but nothing more – nothing that upset her. But now, she found herself wishing she could bolt from the premises as fast as possible. The fact that the detective was 'in the know' even the most minimal amount was distressing for some reason. If she knew about 'Mango' what else did she know?

And, loud and blindingly bright to a fault, Abigail was about to reveal just how dialed in she really was.

"Well, I think it's cute…" she crooned, sticking her nose inches from Marshall's, where he gave her a nervous smile in return. "That boy of mine – so clever."

"It was…just off the top of my head…" he insisted quietly. "'It' is so informal and bare sounding, I feel. 'Mango' is simply a placeholder."

"At least until we start having little ones of our own," Abigail submitted facets from the conversation they had shared the night before. "What'll it be then, Marshal Marshall? Kumquat? Kiwi?"

Mary detested the way she used his double-title, and was on the verge of making an excuse about going to the restroom when the real boom was lowered.

"In fact, Mary, if you weren't so dead-set on adoption, I think my beau here would just as soon take that bambino off your hands!"

From the expression on Marshall's face, he was bowled over that Abigail would say such a thing, but Mary was way past that. She took no solace in the fact that the woman was being overbearing and broadcasting their nightly discussions without a care in the world – that Marshall was probably embarrassed and wanted to fix it, because that was Marshall. No, none of that occurred to Mary, because all she took away from Abigail's throwaway line was one of several things, none of them flattering.

Abigail knew she was giving the baby up. Marshall had told her. So much for Stan's theory.

But, more to the point, what was that line about Marshall wanting the child? In the midst of revealing to Abigail that Mary was some heartless monster that was sending her spawn to sail in a basket up the Hudson, was Marshall regaling her with tales of some idealistic vision of uncle-hood? She'd thought he understood why she was settling on adoption, and now she had no idea.

Any world where Marshall didn't have her back was an alarmingly frightening one, and Mary's senses began to tingle with that ingrained gene to run once again.

She somehow uttered a few words first, "Really? He said that, did he?" but, she didn't look at the cheerleader, fixing her gaze on her partner, who looked nothing short of stricken.

"Well, he didn't say it, but you know that man is wild for the kiddies," Abigail waved an indifferent hand, too caught up in her storytelling to notice the tension that had filled their space. "He was sure excited when he found out you were pregnant, but he's a good friend…" rumpling the inspector's hair. "He never foists his opinions…"

But, Mary had absolutely no aspirations of letting her finish. She stood up without thinking, pushing her chair back. Now she got to be the one to loom over the others; Abigail looked bewildered, but was still wearing her usual cheeky grin. Marshall's mind was catching up with his shock – any minute how he would be patronizing her, and she didn't need that.

"You know what?" Mary snatched her cell phone off the table, interrupting the other woman. "You two look so cozy, that I'm gonna offer up my meal to you. I think my partner would have a better time with you anyway."

And, somewhat satisfied to see that Abigail was finally getting with the program, Mary turned on her heel and stomped out of the restaurant, fully expecting to hear Marshall calling her name in a matter of seconds.

XXX

A/N: Oh, drama! It wouldn't be IPS without a little of that!