Disclaimer: I don't own it, I just write about it!
Author's Note: Saw the preview for next week's episode. Looks like I got this story going just in time! Thank you, all my wonderful readers and reviewers! Marshall's still going through the wringer, so give him your love!
Unintended Consequences
Chapter 9
Marshall sat on the porch, staring at his muddy boots. He had come out here, of course, looking for Mary, but she had managed to disappear after their altercation that morning. He knew she hadn't gone back to Albuquerque without him; Mary wouldn't do that, at least not without telling him she was going, and the SUV was still where they had last left it. In any case, last night's storm had apparently washed out the road, which his equally hung-over brothers were now clearing at their mother's behest, who had gone with them to oversee the operation. Marshall had escaped having to clear debris and spread gravel by not sleeping it off in the barn with his siblings, where their mother had located and recruited them. Marshall supposed she had let him off the hook because she believed he had been responsible enough to get himself to bed without muddying her house.
He blew out a frustrated breath as he continued to regard the boots where they sat on the porch. He tried to remember the events of the previous night. A few vague flashes ghosted at the edge of Marshall's memory. Pain from a sudden blow coupled with an impact into soft mud, which he assumed to be a part of the fight with his brethren. Hands moving over him; that had to be Mary stripping off the suit that was now resting in a trash can, never to be used again. And something else… a fleeting sensation of panting breath against his neck. His brow furrowed as he tried to hold on to the thread of memory, follow it to some conclusion, but it dissolved away like a strand of spider's silk, and remained ephemeral.
He knew, on an intellectual level, that the memories of the time he'd lost might not come back for a while, if they came back at all. Some might filter to the surface when triggered later, but there came a point where alcohol could inhibit the brain's ability to convert short-term memory to a more lasting form, and if that was the case, memories of the lost time would never completely surface; they simply would not exist at all. Marshall wasn't certain he had gotten drunk enough for that, but he also knew that periods of grief and stress could cause memory gaps as well, and he wasn't completely certain that he hadn't gotten his bell rung fighting with his brothers either. He accepted that he would most likely have to wait and see what happened. The liquor had no doubt only served to compound the issue… in more ways than one, Marshall thought, heaving a sigh as his mind wandered back to Mary.
She would be angry at him, he knew, probably for a long time. That he had gotten drunk enough to end up that hung-over, that he could have lashed out at her when, he now realized, she had only been trying to prompt his memory, filled him with shame and guilt. He had uttered remarks that had hit far below the belt, and he was nowhere close to certain that she would allow him to recant his cruelty. He thought it far more likely that she would pretend it didn't matter and then stew on the issue until something else set her off. He hated it when she did that, not because she would fight with him although she could be extremely unpleasant in such circumstances, but because he wanted to be there for her, to be able to set things right before she reached the point of explosion.
The truth of the matter was that such eruptions were more than attempts to make those around her miserable. They were evidence, he knew, proof-positive of the fact that she bottled up her own suffering until she no longer knew what to do with it all. More than anything else about her blow-ups, Marshall hated the fact that they meant he was unable to relieve her suffering, that she had denied him that access to her heart. The really twisted part was, he would fight with her because he was so wounded over having been shut out, but also to provide her that release valve she needed. Then they would both stew for days, a complicated tangle of anger, hurt, and remorse churning in his gut, laced with a sick satisfaction that he was now suffering with her. He knew that for as much as she could get him twisted up in knots, a part of him allowed it and even weirdly liked it, no matter how much it frustrated him.
Marshall heaved himself out of the chair he'd occupied and picked up his mud-caked boots. Next to them, as he had suspected they would be, were her muddy shoes. Unless she had another pair in her go bag, which was certainly possible, she was probably still in the house, lurking somewhere he hadn't checked. He'd looked for her in a few likely places; the kitchen, out back, and then the porch, but if she'd really bothered to hide herself away somewhere unusual, he wanted to give her space to lick her wounds. It wouldn't be a good idea to corner her while the hurt was still so fresh, and it also wouldn't hurt to give his hangover time to fade.
Scooping up her shoes as well, Marshall sat on the porch steps and began picking at the mud, after carefully checking the footwear for unwanted inhabitants.
Mary was, in fact, holed up in Marshall's father's study. Before the family had set out on their errand to mend the road, she had asked if she could do anything to be of assistance. She had needed to feel like she was doing something, like she wasn't worthless. Going with the family, though, was out of the question; Mary had to stay close in case Marshall needed her. Thus, she found herself sorting through papers so Marshall's mom wouldn't have to. Sort and file, the kind of work she usually hated, but right now it was better than nothing.
She knew Marshall would very likely take back the things he had said, even though he was a firm believer in meaning what you say, if not always saying what you mean. He would know he had crossed a line, and she would accept his apology if offered. She figured the circumstances warranted a get-out-of-jail-free card, and in a rare moment of insight, she realized how she might have felt if she had thought someone was comparing her to Jinx. She wouldn't even have to be hung-over to flip her shit over that. And anyway, his was the lesser sin, she felt; he had snapped and the things he'd said had stung… but I'm the one who betrayed his trust, the one who took advantage… the one keeping secrets.
Mary shook her head. She just couldn't tell him. If he remembered, then they could have it out. They'd fight but they'd be okay, maybe, because that was usually how things worked out. But if he didn't remember, she couldn't bear telling him, and in doing so, earning his wrath for an act he likely hadn't really wanted, and bearing the humiliation of wearing her heart on her sleeve at the same time. No, it just wouldn't work. I should have known better. I should have had his back, but instead I gave in to what I wanted at his expense. There it was: the heart of the matter. Mary couldn't tell him how badly she'd wanted him. He would reject her, finally seeing her as the same self-centered bitch everyone else already accepted her to be.
She wiped away a stray tear and continued filing. Suddenly, a bundle of papers caught her eye, stuffed at the back of the file drawer but not in a folder. She pulled them out to figure out where they belonged. The top one was a hospital bill that was a few months old, with Marshall's father's name on it. Her brow furrowed. Something about this didn't seem right; the other unfiled papers were a mess, in no particular order, or at least none she could discern. But this stack had been paper clipped together and stuffed, almost stashed, far behind the other folders in the desk. It reminded her of the way some of her witnesses had occasionally tried to hide personal items, photos and the like, not realizing that their clever hiding place was in fact incredibly common and obvious to the trained and suspicious eye.
Mary flipped through the stack, her need to ferret out secrecy overriding the sense that this was almost certainly not her business… minus the almost. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what she held in her hands; this was a record of treatments and payment receipts for some kind of long-term illness, and the papers dated right up to fairly recently and as far back as nearly a year. Her gut tightened as she put the pieces together; judging from what she saw here, Marshall's father had been ill for some time, had, in fact, been terminal for some time… and Marshall hadn't known. He couldn't have. Mary was reasonably certain he would have told her, and in any case, he had been far too surprised to learn his father was in the hospital dying for it to be otherwise.
Mary felt sick. This wasn't something she wanted to know. She didn't want to have to sort out the right and wrong of this; she felt certain Marshall should have been told, but it was also his parents' decision to make, wasn't it? And Mary certainly didn't want to be the one to tell him, but she couldn't keep it from him now. She was keeping too much from him already. She started to hyperventilate. She needed air. The study that had formerly seemed cozy and lived-in now felt stifling and claustrophobia-inducing. She bolted down the hall, her sights set on the front yard, not even registering that the sheaf of papers was still clutched in her hand.
Marshall had finally restored their shoes to a reasonable semblance of cleanliness. He might take his in to his shoe repair guy in Albuquerque just to be sure; cowboy boots were not the cheapest choice of footwear and sometimes needed maintenance, and like everything else he invested in, he hadn't gone low-end. He had no idea what Mary's shoes had cost and therefore whether she would even care, but he'd offer to take hers in too. After all, it was essentially his fault they were in their present state, and he wasn't one to shirk responsibility or stick someone else with the bill.
As he regarded his handiwork, the front door burst open and Mary came rocketing out. She apparently didn't even see him sitting on the steps, because before he could say anything, she ran right into him in a spectacular collision that he was certain would leave a rather large bruise. She flew more or less over him, and came down hard on the ground below, her shoulder meeting dirt with a sickening thud. Marshall recovered himself quickly and dropped to her side.
"Jesus, Mary! Are you okay?" he asked, his voice tense with worry as he reached out to touch her gently.
"Owww," Mary whimpered, trying to pick herself up but flopping back down from the exertion. She moaned softly and dropped her head to the dirt.
"Mare?" Marshall's voice was now thick with concern. "Mare! Come on, talk to me!"
"I'm okay," she groaned plaintively. "It just really… fucking… hurts."
Marshall felt the knot in his chest loosen. "Come on, Cowgirl. Get up and walk it off."
"What the hell even happened?" Mary asked, dazed, as he helped her up by the arm.
"You ran right into me and went completely ass over teakettle. Or in this case… papers?" he looked around, taking in a fairly extensive number of sheets of paper scattered around where she fell. "What had you in such a hurry anyw-" he cut off, having stooped to read one.
"Marshall, wait!" Mary cried, realizing in horror that she had inadvertently brought the telltale documents with her. They were everywhere; he had seen them, and it could not be undone. There was now no way to prepare him or soften the blow.
"Mare, what is this?" Marshall asked quietly, his eyes wide as he looked up at her.
Mary shook her head helplessly. "Marshall, I just found them, I didn't mean to tell you, I mean I was going to tell you but, you know, not like this!"
Marshall had picked up another sheet of paper, and another, scanning each rapidly, more quick to understand their meaning than Mary had been. "Oh my God…" he whispered. He began to scramble for them frantically, gathering them in panicked fists.
"Marshall…" Mary's voice broke. It was one more bad blow dealt to him and it hurt her to watch it unfold.
"Where did you find these?" he asked finally, his voice ragged even as he tried to steady it enough to speak.
"Marshall, please…" Mary reached for him, knowing he was on the edge. He grabbed her wrist, not allowing her to touch him. He stood, still gripping her arm though not hard enough to cause her pain, and assumed his full height in a stance that was usually reserved for making reticent witnesses crumble and stopping bad guys in their tracks.
"Mary." His voice was now steeled with anger. "Tell me right now. Where did you find these?"
Mary wasn't intimidated by him, did not in fact feel intimidated by nearly anyone, but instead realized that his anger was not for her but for his parents and the situation. She remembered the pain her own father's sudden departure had caused. Her mind flashed to a box of letters tucked away in her closet whose essence boiled down to never stop thinking of me but I don't want you enough to come find you, have a nice life, and she knew what a slap in the face this was to Marshall, even though his circumstances were so vastly different from hers. She knew that this new hurt was like a knife driven into his already wounded heart, and she felt her own heart break for her partner.
"They were wedged in the back of the file drawer," she whispered, tears beginning to fall as her face registered her partner's pain, while his own remained a mask of anger.
Marshall saw the anguish on her face. He knew he hadn't hurt her wrist, knew she wasn't afraid of him. He realized she was hurting for him, and that knowledge finally broke him. He began to shake, dropping the handful of documents as he pulled her to him. He fell against her, letting her take his weight, and he rested his head against hers as he trembled. Holding her in his arms, feeling her support him both physically and emotionally, he felt tears creep down his face. It doesn't matter, he thought. Nothing matters anymore. Not my parents, not the funeral, not this. He didn't want to care that his parents had hidden his father's illness from him. He didn't want to feel any more pain. He wanted to push down everything that had happened, put a lid on it, and never think about it again. He closed his eyes tightly, a shuddering sob escaping him. I don't care anymore. I just don't fucking care.
Mary was in turmoil as she held her partner. She felt grief for his suffering, and it fogged her thoughts. She wanted desperately to be able to figure out how to help him, but she had no idea where to begin. On top of that, there was the secret she'd been keeping from him. Obviously he would not react well to something being kept from him after this, but now was certainly not the time to drop another bombshell on him. Mary knew he was on the verge of an emotional collapse, one from which he might not readily recover, and she was unwilling to add to his burden. The only option remaining, she decided, was to keep her secret, and deal with it when… if… he remembered. She could take that burden upon herself, at least, and spare him that final, crushing blow.
Mary buried her face in her partner's chest, crying silently, and there she and Marshall stood, each shaken to their core, holding each other in their mutual grief as the bright afternoon sun beat down upon them.
