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 11 – Talk the Talk

Marshall POV

Mary found a bar that was dark and quiet. No loud music, no boisterous joshing, a place for serious drinking and serious talk. My eyebrows climb to my hairline when she tosses her credit card at the bartender and demands a bottle of whiskey. Mary might not be the picture of femininity but she always insists that since she's the girl, the man pays. Finding a quiet booth at the rear of the bar, Mary thumps the bottle down and slides in. "Sit," It's a command and I obey, sliding onto the bench across from her.

I have nothing to say as Mary pour three fingers into each shot glass. I catch the one she shoves across the table. She picks up hers and clinks it to mine. No toast, no salute, no down the hatch. What is a proper toast for the end of an engagement? We drink. She pours me another double, and waits while I toss it back too.

Mary puts her elbows on the table, and studies me. Her blonde hair falls forward but doesn't cover her expression of concern. "What are we drinking to?" How about the end of my chance for happiness? It will take more than whiskey to fix this. I can tell she's trying.

I down the refill and pour another. Patience isn't Mary's strong suit, but Norah has changed her in unexpected ways. She sips slowly, watching. Our friendship must still mean something. If we're going to talk, I'd better start.

"Remember that time we talked about rom coms. How the two leads are total opposites but secretly love one another and are meant to be together?" I had brought popcorn and watched two of our witnesses, who fell in love as teens but had spent their adult lives apart. I was happily watched their romantic reunion. They boarded the same plane to their new lives, together, all courtesy of the Marshal Service and Mary. It was all her idea and she made it happen.

"The Albanians and the accountant? Yeah, I remember. You accused me of playing Cupid." Her mouth puckers in disgust. Romance has no place in Mary's world. No one knew that better than me.

"I did, didn't I?" I couldn't hide my stupid grin. My facial muscles crease reluctantly since I hadn't smiled in days. "That was straight out of the rom com play book," I inform her gleefully. Mary glares taking my statement as an accusation. Mary could solve anyone's relationship snags but her own, and now mine.

"One of the stupidest things you ever said," she grouses and shakes her head.

I wave my hand dismissively. "I never believed opposites attract. It's a movie cliché, but in real life, pfft."

Mary thumps her half empty glass on the table. "You didn't? Really? You could've fooled me. Haven't you watched every rom com ever made?"

I sip and swallow and shake my head, the rawness of the whiskey stealing my words. "That's why I was attracted to Abigail. We were, are, two optimists confronted daily with the worst of humanity and yet we retain our faith that there is good in everyone." I drop my head, tilting the empty shot glass. "Now I know that's why it couldn't work."

I looked up to see that Mary is actually listening with a confused frown. That's a first. "I don't follow, Shakespeare. If you don't think opposites make a good relationship, and two similar people don't make a good relationship, what's left?"

"Shakespeare?" That's one of the nicest names she ever called me.

She does that smirk and single shoulder shrug I used to think was cute. "Romeo and what Julie et."

Her weak humor is easy to ignore. "Maybe my initial hypothesis is wrong. Maybe opposites do make the best relationship. One person's weakness is another's strength. Together they're strong." I mourn the fact that Mary never made the leap, never saw that she and I are opposites.

Thinking about Mary makes my head too heavy for my neck. I see Mary rise out of her seat, leaning toward me. She's probably afraid I'm going to hurl or hit my head on the table. "I'm okay." I sit up straight, well straighter. "I'm fine. I'll be better after a few more."

Mary looks doubtful, but doesn't stop me when I refill our glasses. "I get that you and Abigail were Mr. and Mrs. Merry. So now you're saying that's why it didn't work?"

"Yes, yes." I proclaim earnestly, leaning across the table. "We have the same strengths. We have the same weaknesses. That made us weaker. We didn't complement each other. We were..." My mind wanders to last Thursday. "I tried, Mare. I tried to be the best boyfriend, fiancé, lover." I pause and drink. "That was the problem, I had to try. I had to match her enthusiasm even when I was tired. I had to be the me she loved. When we moved in together, I didn't get any down time. No time to just be me. I had to avoid you at work. At home I had to be affectionate, cheerful, and confident even when I didn't feel it."

Mary shakes her head and decides to call me on my bullshit. "I don't believe it."

"Believe what?"

"You didn't break up because you and Abigail are too much alike. You weren't just trying Marshall, you really were happy. Both of you. God when you came to my door in matching Santa hats I nearly puked. So much good cheer! It's unnatural," she complained. "Martin is the reason Abigail left."

That's my girl. Calling a spade a spade even when I can't. I draw in a breath slowly while facts, thoughts and impressions roil in my memory. How can I explain Abigail's adamant refusal to accept Martin?

"Abigail told me that she practically raised her siblings. Her parents left her in charge a lot. When she tried to get her sisters to abide by the rules her parents set, the girls would refuse. Their folks would side with the younger kids. She had to play by the rules but her siblings didn't. She's gun shy, afraid things would be the same with Martin."

Leaning across the table I try to convince Mary, as I had failed to convince Abigail. "I told her it wouldn't be like that. As Martin's step mother she'd have the authority and I would stand with her, always. That's what hurts the most. After all I did to prove my love, she doesn't believe me. She doesn't trust me."

Damn it. Is that wetness on my cheek tears? Mary has plenty of practice with weeping drunks. I lay my head on the table, hiding my face in my arms. I'm weak and disgusting. My hands are suddenly warm as she covers them with her own.

"Marshall." Her voice is soft but reflects my pain. "I'm so sorry. You deserve to be happy. You deserve it all - kids, wife, recognition of the wonderful man, the accomplished marshal you are. I'm sorry." She pauses and I lift my head till we are eye to eye. "I believe you. I trust you. I always have. You're the only one I believe."

I see the truthful caring in her face. I slump back against the booth. "She didn't." I run my hand through my hair. If anyone could appreciate how childhood events could mark you for life, it was Mary. "Maybe it's for the best. If she couldn't trust me on this, she doesn't trust me. For God's sake she thought I was having an affair!"

I follow that revelation with another shot. Mary held her drink in front of her eyes, rotating the glass. Thinking. For once I had no idea what she was thinking.

"Maybe you're right." Oh my God, hell has frozen over. "Wait, let me turn on the recorder. That's the only way I'll ever hear you say that again."

Mary snickers, and holds her glass close. "Not about the affair part, the Abigail part. You're often right Doofus. I just don't admit it."

She took a sip. "I always thought being with someone who loved me would be easy. I could just be myself and it would be okay, y'know? Raph never loved me warts and all. You never tried to change me."

As if anyone could change Mary. My emotions are still churning and I lash out. "Did you think calling me names all these years- girl, Miss Priss, douche, jackass - did you think that made me feel comfortable? Why would that make me think you like me for who I am?" Over the years I had come to understand that Doofus was a token of affection. Her other disparaging names wore thin after a while.

"Probably not." She drops her gaze. Is that regret I hear? "I've called others worse. For God's sake Marshall. You're a fifth generation marshal. You know that computer mumbo jumbo. You can dance the mambo and shoot with a bullet in your chest. I can never measure up to you. Calling you names was my way of dragging you down to my level."

Really? I'd never be at Mary's level. She's passion personified. She's the flame I've been drawn to since the day we met. That and her quick thinking, accurate shooting and uncanny witness handling. Her womanly attributes were burned into my retinas for all time. And she just wants to be one of the guys? Not gonna happen Sunshine.

She pauses and takes a sip, grimacing as it slides down her throat. "Most people we deal with are ass wipes. The Fugitive Task Force isn't known for sensitivity. I thought marshals were supposed to be like that. Then I met you." She shrugs. "You didn't fit the image."

I nod. "You had the wrong image." She downs the remains of her shot and coughs, nodding her agreement.

We share a few moments of silence. My thoughts return to Abigail, another failure on my lifetime scorecard. I murmur, "Martin was the last straw." I ignore her confusion. "Our jobs, the necessary secrecy, make it difficult to build trust," I feel like I'm in that goddamn training video. "Abigail has a pretty good idea of what I do. . . ."

Mary snorts and interrupts, "Of course she does. She told me herself."

I'm not surprised. She had me figured out pretty early in the game. "But she couldn't know the whole of it. She underestimated the danger, and she underestimated me." I take a deep breath and huff indignantly. "She accused me of cheating on her." That stung.

"So do you think she's cheating on you? You said you two are alike." Leave it to Mary to turn my admission against me.

"No." I'm exasperated. Why doesn't Mary get it? Or am I the one who doesn't get it? "Never."

Mary stares at me. "She thought you could be unfaithful? What a load of crap. You would never do that. Who did she think you had time to romance on the side? Work and the wedding have had you jammed up for months. Who were you supposed to be doing the beast with two backs?" It's kind of sweet to see her so angry on my behalf. "Don't tell me you called that airline steward." She narrows her eyes and smirks referring to a long ago flight where she was amused by the man's interest in me. I remember feeling vindicated, despite the teasing. Finally she got a taste of how I felt when men hit on her.

I stare and point my shot glass in her direction. Mary's eyes open wide, she leans forward and points to her chest. "Me? Is she insane? When would we have time? I have Norah. It's been a year since we've gone out of town on a witness transfer. That's just," she splutters, "nuts!"

Wait! Her only objection to having sex with me is the lack of time?

Mary shakes her head and acknowledges, "You were. . . I couldn't have handled my father and that whole mess without you. But then you asked me to release you." She shook her empty glass at me. "I've released you and haven't called."

"Yes, you released me! You released me right out of your life, yours and Norah's. I don't know anything about Norah and damn little about you. Do you have a new cowboy? What about Mark? Has Norah started to talk?" I shake my head sorrowfully. Mary of the selective memory.

"I also said that if you called I would come, every time. You conveniently forgot that part." I toss back another shot. The liquid courage soothes and rasps my throat simultaneously. "But you never called, hell, you never even talk to me. It took getting dumped by my fiancée for you to talk to me."

"Idiot," Mary retorts, glaring at me. "Released means I don't call. Ever." The glass in her fist pounds the table.

I must be drunker than I realize because I think I hear her pain. She had released me. But did that mean Norah released her Uncle Marshall? Mary gets a faraway look, and the almost smile she has when talking about Norah. "You want to hear about Norah? You just saw her Sunday."

"She sat in your lap the whole time. What is she eating? She must be crawling. Does she stand?" I feel like the banished psuedo-parent, finally slaking the thirst for information about the child.

She graces me with a few crumbs. "Norah's started eating people food. She's been crawling. I've had to disinfect the floors." She grimaces. "She can pull herself up." She must be recalling some poignant mother daughter moment. I am treated to a real Mary smile, one that reaches her eyes. Or maybe it's the whiskey. I'm chagrined that a little girl could do what I couldn't - make her happy. Another failure for me.

Snapping back to the present, she bangs her empty glass on the table. "We're here to talk about you, not Norah. You're welcome to see her anytime, y'know. Just let me know so I can make sure she's not at Mark's."

"Mark's still in the picture?" How did I miss that?

Mary nodded. "Yeah, sort of." Mary made another try at redirecting the conversation.

"So the cheerleader thought we were doing the horizontal mambo? Why? We were always just partners. I've never come on to you, and you've kept your distance since you and Abigail started dating." She sniffs, shifts her eyes and examines the glass in her hand. "Even before that."

I shrug, drink, then reply, "I don't know. You'd have to ask her. When I told her about Martin and Dana it added fuel to her imaginary fire of my unfaithfulness."

Mary rolls her eyes. "So, Dana?" she asks. "What did Abigail think about Dana?"

I ignore the question. That's the past. And by the past I mean both Abigail and Dana. I don't know what Abigail thought about Dana. She never mentioned her. I pour another shot. When I gesture with the bottle Mary puts her hand over her glass.

"Dana looks awful. When we were digging Chris Worley out of that illegal betting mess she was a lively bundle of sex disguised as a teacher. If she'd been a dog her tail would be wagging nonstop. But if Dana is dying. . . ?"

Ignoring her last question. "I told you, ovarian cancer. Stage 4." At Mary's questioning look I explain. "Its meta.. metast. . . . " I must be drunker than I thought, I have to downshift from medical terms to Mary speak. "It's spread to other organs. She came to see me to," I pause, "to. . . I guess, to tie up loose ends."

"God, Marshall. That sucks." I am thinking of those we had lost, and were about to lose.

"When Mia died," she exhales slowly. "I lost a friend. I don't have many friends. She was strong, opinionated, and despite her criminal family had a keen sense of justice. She could have just let it go, but she wanted better for Robin who isn't even her daughter."

I wonder if Mary ever saw that despite her felonious father Mary has the same dedication to justice, the same fierce need to protect Norah.

"I knew I could take her advice." She looks at her empty glass then adds, "Just like with you."

I cough at the sharpness of the whiskey and what Mary had admitted. Mary never took my advice. Did she? Certainly not when it came to men.

One more whiskey. "How am I going to be a father to Martin when he just met me?"

Mary grimaces. "It's going to be tough, explaining his mother's death. But he'll love you in no time. Everyone does."

Is that affection I see in her eyes? The liquor is affecting my hearing. Everyone loves me? Since when?

"Whenever I have to cover your witnesses they are so disappointed. The women go on and on. 'Marshall is so strong. He's so polite. He's so. . ." she sing songs then shudders as she says "cute.' They are all besotted with you. Grannies to girls, they all love you Marshall."

Besotted? My vocabulary has infested hers. I don't want to talk about it. I don't know how to take her version of praise. "What do you think of Martin?"

"I could tell he was yours as soon as I saw him." She smiles as if that's a good thing.

"How?"

Mary puts her glass down and pours us both another double, well maybe a triple.

"You gotta be kidding." She looks at me and determines I'm serious. "Damn, Marshall." Elbows on the table she leans across and peers into my eyes. "He looks just like you. His eyes, the shape of his face, his books. I could see the resemblance right away." I never knew hers were so green. And tonight sort of watery. "You'll be a wonderful father. How could you not be? You're . . . . Marshall."

She says my name as if it were a category, a species. So I'm a paragon of virtues, huh? Fat lot of good that did me where she's concerned. All that did was make her think I was too good for her. We spend the next few moments in silence. I focus on calculating the flow of liquor drops down the side of the shot glass using an extrapolation of a fluid dynamic equation. Avoiding reality at all costs.

Mary interrupts my mathematical wanderings. "So, you want him and Abigail doesn't." Mary understands fathers and sons are the natural order of things. Why couldn't Abigail see it?

"That sums it up," I shake my head sadly. My pompadour had lost its pomp and was hanging in my eyes, blurring my vision. "Dana just wanted me to know. She asked me to put my name to his birth certificate. She has a couple ready to adopt him."

"Adoption?" Her tone is sharp. Mary had gone down that road and not taken it. "But he's your son, right?"

I nod. "Abigail doesn't want to believe he's mine. I'm having a DNA tested, but Mare," my confession combines despair and hope, "you saw him, you know." I was embarrassed to hear my voice rise to a reedy squeak. "He's three. Three years old." I'm repeating myself. Hell, we both had enough whiskey that we could use an instant replay. I reach into my jacket pocket, missing it the first two times. Finally the photo is in my hand. I put it on the table where Mary can see it.

"This is me at three."

"Martin. . . ." I fumble for my phone finding the picture I want and shove it toward Mary. It shows a young boy wearing a cowboy hat and boots. Just like the photo of me. Only this one was taken last week.

Mary held the phone next to the photo. I saw her sneak a look at the text message I had sent my mother. "Like two peas in a pod," she agrees.

"Even my mom thought that was me. I tried to use this to prove to Abigail, to show her that Martin is mine but she doesn't want to see. She made up her mind when Martin freaked out." I palm my face, smacking my forehead. "Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was my fault." I sunk down.

"What were you thinking?" Mary asked sincerely, no judgement.

I look up from the table, bleary eyed. "I wasn't. Isn't that obvious? I messed up Mare." Don't whine, Marshall. Don't whine. You don't need her pity.

I sit up, hold my head up high and look straight at her. "If you can be a single parent and a marshal, so can I," I declare, thumping my glass on the table. "He's my son and I'm going to raise him."

"Jesus Marshall. Don't look to me as some kind of cockamamie role model. I'm not the poster girl for single parenthood. At least as Chief you'll have some control over your schedule."

"Don't count on it."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Abigail thinks I won't be promoted because of Martin." I was studying the label on the whiskey bottle, and didn't see her reaction.

"That's nuts. Other chiefs have families. How is this different?"

I've been worrying about this for days, ever since Abigail raised the specter of 'impropriety' axing my promotion. "Because it's so sudden? The committee didn't know I had a child when they evaluated me."

"Hell Marshall. You didn't know. How could they?" If Mary could make my case to the promotion board it would be a done deal.

"Is Abigail going to tell the Marshal Service?" Mary asks, leaning against the back of the booth.

"I don't know. I'll have to tell Stan soon." I'm not looking forward to that conversation.

"Abigail's full of shit. You have an outstanding record as a marshal. Who else could bring the skills you have to the job? You'll be Chief. Just wait and see. Abigail probably would have forgiven you for cheating. That's an single event. Raising a love child is an 18 year commitment. If you're lucky, and they don't return to the nest till they're 30."

I nod in agreement. "She said she 'didn't sign up for this.' She told me to choose - her or my son." My eyes are wells of pain as I croak, "but he's my son. I can't abandon him. He has family. He has me."

"Oh Marshall," Mary sighs. "I have a soft spot for fathers who don't abandon their kids." Was I actually going to be a single parent? It was difficult enough when you had nine months and hormones to help, but being thrown into the deep end with a toddler? That's trouble.

"Raising Martin is a lot to take on Marshall, even for you. And then Dana's death? The kid is going to be . . . . " Then she mutters softly, "Thank God that's one complication Norah doesn't have to deal with."

"I know Dana has talked to him and had the psychologist at the hospital talk to him. I have no idea if he realizes she'll be gone forever." I draw in a shaky breath. "That's why I have to be there for him."

"Why do you think this will work?" That's my partner, ever the pessimist. She wants to be sure I have considered all facets, just as I do when planning a witness transfer or court room appearance.

I talk to the shot glass. "Because," I say, my enunciation starting to slur, "I have you."

Fangirls (and boys) will recall Trevor, (Sea. 2 Ep.3, A Stand Up Triple.) Trevor used the same words to Mary. Thanks to everyone who is following this story. I'd love to know what you think.