Disclaimer: Am considering petitioning for possession of Marshall, but if that fails…

Author's Note: 'gasp!' Another chapter within a week! Certainly a record.

Little action in this (hell, little dialogue in this), but lots of introspection, some awareness beginning to bloom. Oh, and I skimped on the editing for speed, so I may have to tweak later. Just, you know, FYI…

As always, reviews are most appreciated. I so very much love to hear from readers, so please take a moment after the chapter to share your thoughts!

-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-

Chapter 12: Studies in Breathing

"As I know how you hate surprises," Marshall replied smugly, knowing expression creasing his eyes further. "I shall inform you now that this," he wavered the small parchment for effect, then flicked his wrist over toward her, presenting the envelope between thumb and two fingers. "…is your personal invitation to an engagement party."

Mary stared at the proffered card, frozen. Tunnel vision and sound faded in and out, leaving her oddly cold. When did she swallow that seven-pound stone settling heavily in her gut? And why was her face suddenly ice?

By force of some extraterrestrial will her arm lifted, fingers acquired the offending papyrus. Gaze on the man before her, held. Marshall was still grinning, excitable, happy. He turned and strode to his desk, humming as he went with little more than a brief cursory glance to her unmoving form. Only at that moment did a grimace mar his face, but even then just momentarily before perpetual joy returned. Attention on his monitor, his voice was instructive laced in humor.

"Yes, Mary, you are expected to attend," he preempted with amused exasperation. "You're a friend, and I will absolutely need your support and backup, regardless how distasteful you may find the duty." Still grinning. Still buoyant. Still typing away. "I'm in charge of all the details, since the bride-to-be is in no position to do it herself."

Mary stood another eternity before mechanically seating herself. Turn toward the computer; pretend normalcy. Glance furtively at the offending cardstock still in her hand. Her trembling hand. When had that started?

Somewhere a clock ticked distinctively, echoing primitive thoughts of survival, of anticipation and anxiety of the when of downfall. Why was this a downfall? she asked herself distractedly. Because… because it was just a matter of time before she would lose her best friend completely to his new –

The word wouldn't come. But she knew it, knew it instinctively. He would have less and less time for her – selfish, she knew, yes, but true all the same. His idiocyncracies and oddball knowledge and surprisingly healing words to her… they would vanish with a ring on that evenly-tanned finger. And she would be alone again, regardless how many cowboys she corralled for a ride. Wasn't the same as the intimacy of real friendship.

Slight crinkling drew her attention back to the card; gripping so tight, she was marring the fine linen embossed paper. Again it came back to her: time. How much time did she have before the words were declared by all that was holy and familiar? How long before her best friend – her only living friend – began the slow pull away? More so than that she'd seen in the past few months, a matter of her own doing.

Unsteady fingers broke the wax seal and withdrew in stops and starts the tastefully simple invitation, golden rings intertwined in relief – subtle, classy. Marshall.

Dry tongue darted nervously to wet chapped lips. Maybe, by knowing when, she could begin her own withdraw, her own self-protective, proactive plan. Ease the separation before it became a case of merely partners watching each other's back, working together to do a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

Flipping it open with definitive decision, Mary skimmed for the date.

Next weekend. The party. The wedding… two months' time.

Tunnel vision. Heat and chill flashed through her, nausea threatening. Two months. That was all. All the time before the deepest, longest-standing relationship she'd ever had in her life not bound by blood began to fade into obscurity.

Feeling masochistic, Mary forced herself to read every word of the finely scripted invitation, taking in the details of the typeset, the fabric-esque feel of the heavy paper. The eloquent verbiage that intimated romance and confessed an old soul of gallantry and chivalry. So Marshall, she could taste it.

And then…

Mary stopped. Stopped breathing. Stopped thinking. Stopped… everything. A second look. A third. No less than six carefully constructed run-bys. Until she viewed all through a blurred sheen. Dropping the card to her desk, she rose and skirted it in three moves, frantically wiping at one the invading saltwater.

"Hey, you okay?" Marshall's concern evident, she could only toss back a choked 'Something in my eye' poor excuse, but disappeared down the hall and to the ladies' before he could interrogate further.

In before the damn broke; in before legs gave way and she slid down the tiled wall, diaphragm demanding, lungs begging, and air finally allowed in her body. Rattling breaths, tingle of nerves awakening in her cheeks, fingers, belly…

…request your presence to celebrate the engagement of Mr. Stanley Paul McQueen and Ms. Eleanor Holly Prince, on this day of…

-o-

Seven and three-quarters minutes it took to compose herself, seeming something rational and intimidating rather than weepy female suffering hormonal mutiny. Mary softly made her way back down the hall, mentally preparing herself to turn back into Madam Smartass the moment she passed into Marshall's view. Voices, however, pulled her short of that line, pausing.

"So, d'you give it to her?" Trepidation. Stan.

"Yep." Mostly happy; smidgeon of acceptance.

"And?"

"And… she really didn't say anything. Come to think of it, not a word." Bewilderment edged into his response.

"Huh." Underlying Stan's own confusion was a sense of relief at Marshall's update. "Thanks for handling it. I really didn't want to hear the catty commentary the moment she realized…" Her chief trailed off, a knowing timbre to his voice. Marshall's answer mimicked it.

"That's what I'm here for, Stan." Rustle of papers, keys typed, pause again. Squeak of a chair, as if someone were leaning it to a side to peer around obstacles. Then her partner's voice lowered some.

"So what's it look like for when Eleanor'll move back to Albuquerque?" Indoor voice, secretive.

Stan's half-sigh, half-groan flowed easily to Mary. She was fascinated, for reasons inexplicable.

"Depends how long it takes to get her transferred out of HQ. She's been in DC long enough that the FBI would consider moving her to a field office if all the cards are played with a marked deck. We're hoping SAC Lee is willing to take on an analyst with marshal ties." Mary could see without sight the tight-muscled hand worrying over lined eyes. "Until then, we'll keep up the long distance. We're old enough to know the value in it; keeps a bit of the romance alive, you know?"

A deep, low chuckle pervaded her chest; Marshall was such a – well, yeah, a girl in terms of romance and sensitivity. But there was something to be said for doors being opened, poems left on Post-It Notes, a foot massage…

"Nice job on the invitations, by the way. El called me this morning. You FedEx'd her one; she adored it. Said you could handle the details of the wedding, too, if the engagement party flies as classy."

"Good practice for me," Marshall said, and Mary felt a stab of something breaking her peaceful feeling. Turning, she slipped back down the hall, shoved the restroom door so that it slammed shut, and heavily marched back to her desk. It did not escape her notice Chief McQueen had barricaded himself in his office, Marshall once more busy with work.

Silence reigned the morning, until 10:43 when Mary announced the need for a Big Gulp before her first witness' check-up. Marshall followed with a grin, notepad handy for party plan lists.

-o-0-o-

The week had been progressing well. Witnesses were behaved, mostly. Newly inducted teenage boy settled into boarding school. Minor crises with strippers' convention attendees showing up at the Thai restaurant Mary's former-stripper Marion D'Ablo waitressed, averted. Plans finalized with the party Saturday night. So what, then, was making Marshall so unsettled all week?

Quick glance to his right exuded a plea of long-suffering and impatience. Mary was still on his phone. Marshall navigated Friday afternoon traffic while she chattered on, her side of the conversation distracting.

"Wednesday sounds great…" Perky enough to be friendly, low-keyed enough to be genuine. Mary was actually enjoying this call. Marshall caught a sly look from her that set his senses to edge; what the hell was she telling his partner?

"Oh, yeah…" Mary's voice drew out the affirmative, lower, sultry… Damn. This couldn't be good. Now he was getting concerned, but knew any overt suggestion for Mary to give up the phone would be taken as weakness; he had to suffer with dignity and bluff.

Never mind that following that phrase was more of Mary's commentary, suspicious expressions and pornographic tone. God, but he… No. No, he was not going to react to it. Absolutely not. He was happy with Shae, had a new life with her. They complemented each other so well. He could feel her affections, talk to her, relax with her and share his life and passions with her. He'd realized on the plane coming home last week that he could truly envision building a life with her. That was where his heart lay, around which his future was building, growing. Where he would finally find inner peace. And soon he would –

Biochemistry was a different animal altogether, however. Every syllable Mary uttered spun a fine and delicate web deep in him, every breath a flutter to that silken lair. Alerting. Tantalizing. Vibrating that intricate mesh of nerves. And she was talking to his girlfriend, damn it. That. That was a sliver of his unease this week: Shae and Mary's communications. They had talked several times, Shae calling Marshall, then after a few minutes requesting to speak with Mary. It unnerved him, and possibly for reasons not of the surface variety. He honestly did not want to consider any which were patterned after remnants lying about from a world left behind months ago.

"Don't think that by refusing the technology, you're conveniently refusing the job. I'm not inheriting all your work today, Space Cadet." Mary's sarcasm snapped him from the reverie he'd longed to abandon. She was holding out his cell in offer. "If it doesn't work for me that way, it most certainly doesn't get applied to you, either."

"Oh." Brilliant, Sherlock. Marshall quickly stepped from self-chastisement and on to an appropriate comeback. "Sorry," he drawled, pocketing his phone whilst focusing on a left turn. "Your ear has been attached to my phone so much all week... while conversing with my girlfriend… I was having an identity lapse." He paused. "The crises came later when I feared I'd grown boobs and PMS. Plus, my skin tones don't pull off blond well."

The sharp backhand to his upper cheekbone stung. Marshall cringed, throwing too late a shoulder up in defense. "Damn it, Mare; trying to drive here, in case you failed to take note of the moving vehicles all about us and the forward motion of the very motorized contraption in which you currently find yourself encased."

A few crude and rude remarks followed, a witness visit, then once more Marshall's mind drifted with the miles as they headed out of town to see one of Mary's older, less sociable cases. Never one to enjoy silence, Mary must have discovered something beyond moodiness with this particular stretch of introspection.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked abruptly. Marshall started. "You just seem… off. Seriously, what's bugging you? You're not yourself, and it's really worrying me." Evident in her concern, Marshall forewent the glib retort forming automatically in his head.

"Mary…" he began, then sighed with the frustration of finding words to fit. Words that explained enough to ease his best friend's fears, yet words that told nothing of the root. "There are some things in my life that I just … can't talk to you about."

"Why? Hell, there's not a damn thing I don't tell you. Even my woman stuff I share with you."

"Er, yeah, about that…"

"C'mon Marshall. You hurt, I hurt. If I can't help directly, I can always provide the proverbial ear and a damn fine bottle of whiskey."

Unbidden, a small smile pulled crookedly at Marshall's mouth. Mary might be rough as fifty-cent sandpaper, but her love for a friend was as beaming and encompassing as a supernova star. He didn't want to miss out on mending that closeness; a true friend would share these distracting apprehensions with her. The hurt in her face at his withdraw, his hesitation, was apparent. Yet how could he admit the dilemma now pulling him in diametrically opposite directions? Not when she was a grand part of that emotional turmoil. She'd see through a lie, too, with that crystal clear vision she had when it came to his words.

He just wanted things normal once more, that easy camaraderie that forced them both to expect the best from themselves, to step outside humdrum solo lives. Confidences shared with a meeting of the eyes, a twitch of facial muscles. That connection. He just wanted his friendship with her back. Without the complications. Without his complications.

"As much as I would love to partake in said brew with you right now…" He managed a weak, if not honest, smile, turning to meet her animated face before focusing again on the road. "Let's just call it a Man Thing and leave it at that for now, okay? And regardless of your penchant for violent weaponry, Naval-worthy speech and blatant disregard for all things girly, you are, in fact, not a man." This time he cast her a marginally larger smile, reaching his eyes with a wistful humor.

Just as she drew breath for an answer, he beat her to it, rapidly clarifying, "And I really, truly am, Mare. Regardless your characterization of me based on my tendencies toward greater sensitivity and detailed orientation than many of my gender." He flashed her a smirk and was relieved to see her own returned, a devilish gleam in her eyes. Score one for Marshall.

-o-

Stepping off the remodeled freight elevator complete with cage and aged wooden doors, Marshall walked down his small foyer toward the stairwell, stopping and turning to his left. His front door slid to the right, its secure track heavy, its 1940's warehouse design complementing his eclectic, open loft. Relocking it after stepping through, Marshall flicked the switch next to the door. Wall sconces and floor lamps lit throughout. Classic 40's architecture lay at the base of all around, bled through every crown-molded nook and cranny. By now dusk had ridden itself over Albuquerque, issuing forth the barest of glow from the skylights before the lights had intruded, became a void of darkness after they spread their artificial beams.

Marshall tossed his keys on the low block-glass half-wall to his right that shielded a reading nook from the vast airiness of the living area before him. Mail he flipped on the granite counter as he turned opposite the wall toward the open kitchen, a beer calling him with its infinite wisdom. Bypassing the fridge his first go-round, he walked straight into the butler's pantry that lay between the kitchen and spare bedroom (opposite his own boudoir). A distinct craving for baked Cheetos propelled the fit marshal into a bounty of other tidbits. By the time he made his way back out and to his beer, arms were laden with a fresh block of sharp cheddar, pre-sliced pepperonis, club crackers, spicy brown mustard and, of course, the cheetah's crunchy crisps.

And a six pack of Heineken.

He could really go for a storm tonight, he told himself, taking the hallway exit from the kitchen to walk right and catty-corner across his living room. It would fit his mood and mind, a turbulence of life out of control, destiny warring with what fate will allow. Passing the antique dining table on his left and veering toward the small array of seating options in the middle of the vast room, Marshall paused, debating. The plush papasan chair before the free-standing flat screen made the best combination of comfort and security. The latter would be useful should he follow through with initial intent and imbibe the entire carton of alcohol. He'd prefer no marks or concussions from falling out of another reclining piece.

Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What had he set himself up for, volunteering to help out Eleanor and plan out her engagement party? At first he had been joyous, tickled pink and beyond that after Stan had confided to Marshall in his office before leaving for DC that he was going to propose to the former office assistant, she had said 'yes.' Stan had called him, given him the details, then Eleanor had asked if Marshall could help her out, since she wanted the wedding and celebrations in Albuquerque. He'd agreed, almost giddy with the task.

And he had enjoyed it, he reflected. What he hadn't anticipated was the overwhelming ache that began quietly somewhere deep in his chest, spreading like heat from an infection. More and more marital bliss, inescapable adoration coming to a fruition long anticipated, heavily entrenched like the root system of a hundred-year-old oak tree. All of it faced him with a beckoning appeal, softly chanting to infuse himself with that connection, that happiness. And he thought of Shae, thought of the promise he'd made himself on the plane, and reflected he was making the right choice. The necessary choice. What unnerved him, however, was the sudden relationship between Shae and Mary. It made him uneasy, in ways he simply could not define.

Intent upon diversion from errant and dangerous thoughts, Marshall settled his booty upon the centerpiece coffee table, drew off his boots and curled himself into the deep, cushioned chair. The expected remote, however, was not to be located. Sighing in that half-annoyed, half-expected way, he thought back to the last time he'd had it, and…

Un-pretzeling himself, Marshall rose and walked past the television, angling to the left where the forty-five degree entrance wall of his library met him in four easy strides. The inwardly constructed corner room helped to section off the western side of the floor plan, built against the back wall with a bay window overlooking his back garden.

Easing open the double French doors, Marshall flicked the European wall switch, another grouping of antique sconces lighting his favorite room. But tonight he took little notice of the hodge-podge of ancient maps framed upon the wall, the endless bookshelves of tomes and Egyptian statuettes; of snow globes and hand-drawn calligraphy; of world globes and feathered quills and scientific gadgets that would have earned a smile from Einstein. No, tonight Marshall strode directly to his desk, ignoring the landscaped view of mountains in the distance and instead reached around telescope and stack of astronomy notes for the remote device he'd carried with him while on the phone, having been disrupted flipping between games last Sunday.

As long, nimble fingers wrapped about the tool, Marshall's eyes caught the document he'd left out in his search for Sunday's question of invoice from an order. His Last Will and Testament. The pause lasted three slow breaths, then he turned with his tamer of gadgets and made his way back to refuge. But even as he settled in with fare and film, Marshall couldn't shake the thoughts that ran rampant through his mind. Reminders of what could happen, who would be left, how would anyone know the significance of the velvet-lined cat mask that hung from his etched Guinness mirror…

Distraction wasn't working. What he needed now was connection, a voice to soothe his nerves, reiteration that he wasn't in this life alone.

Pawing for his phone, he muted the television and dialed.

-o-0-o-

Aroma and flavor blended in the spicy curry, burning her mouth in the loveliest torture she'd known in some time. Mary savored the concoction, every bite bliss about her tongue. Even the uncontrolled moan deep in her throat was of little consequence. Eyes closed, head tilted back, slow chew.

"I think you've really won my sister over now, Peter." While Mary missed much of the conversation, her sister's giggle was not to be part of the background noise. But what could she say? Peter was a damn fine cook.

"I promise to send leftovers home with you," her future brother-in-law was saying, and Mary swallowed and resumed awareness of surroundings. Even informally, Peter's presentation of dinner ranked beautifully with fine tablecloth, candles, delicately patterned stoneware.

"Peter, I willingly trade you my sister for continued cuisine of this caliber. You have my blessing; go do with her as you will." She swept her sister with a royal gesture of inclusion and took another full bite of her meal. A mental note was made to always accept dinner invitations when Peter was cooking.

Without looking Mary could see the blush Brandi revealed, heard the laughter around the table, the loving words of affection between betrothed. The evening had been nice; even her mother was behaving.

"So, Mary," Jinx began, pleasant in voice. "When are we going to finally get you settled down with a good man?"

Or not.

"Mom!" Brandi's embarrassed hiss shot out. Mary swallowed, this time the food feeling as sawdust. Jinx caught the baleful look her oldest threw her.

"Well, Sweetie, I don't mean to be cruel, it's just that… well, I hate to see you all alone. I know you have your job and all, but it doesn't keep you company in the middle of the night."

"Who says I have to be married to be kept company through the night?" she tossed back, an arched brow daring her mother to go down that road. Mary was just waiting for…

"Oh, Honey, I know you and Raphael didn't –"

…and, bingo.

"Mom, we are so not discussing Raph," she interrupted, fork down, need for a drink. Time to think, to regain control. "I've tried the marriage bit before, for all the wrong reasons. I have too much respect for it to do that again."

"Mom, you know," Brandi slipped in, surprising Mary with her intuitive intervention. Maybe she was growing up. "Mary and Chico really weren't that compatible. I think she made the right decision, and when the right man comes along, she'll know it. You can't force her to find him."

Mary, in spite of herself, grinned crookedly at her little sister. Brandi smiled back.

"But how are you going to find him with that job of yours?" her mother went on, unaware – or perhaps just not caring – of the Pandora's Box upon which she knocked. "Sitting around in a courthouse all day, you're only going to meet derelicts on trial and married lawyers."

"Maybe Mary's already met her soul mate," Brandi countered. Mary noticed Peter was staying out of this, studious in his stirring of the sauce.

"What's that supposed to mean?" It was Mary's turn for questions, this one mingled in anger and hurt. "What, I met him, screwed up, and now he's passed me by and has three kids and a yacht in Hoboken?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying," her sister clarified. "Maybe you've met him somewhere, see him on occasion, and just don't realize you're attracted to him. Then one day – bam! – you'll figure out he's cute and charming and you'll live happily ever after."

Mary's eyes rolled heavenward, begging for strength. "Right, Brandi; and little leprechauns will start dancing naked around a May Day pole in my back yard, bearing gifts of Fig Newtons and ha' pennies."

"Mary, that's no way to talk to your sister." Jinx's scold was appalled, as though Mary had unleashed a verbal lashing to equal her naughtiest witness. Then in a whiplash move, the matriarch switched to crooning and hopeful. "And you do need to get a move on it, Mary; you're not getting any younger. What about having children?"

"Who said I wanted children?" Mary asked, flustered at the flashing image of a dream, descended belly and large hands wrapped lovingly, protectively, possessively about it. "Why would I want to bring kids into this fucked-up world, huh? I've seen enough shit to know I don't want to subject any other living soul to this insanity we've created."

Her mother's mouth opened, then a flick of her eyes to her left and suddenly it closed again. Mary cast about and realized Peter must have silenced her, though he was only watching the ladle slowly slip along the porcelain bowl rim, low grating left in its wake.

"Thanks for dinner, Peter," Mary offered as she stood. "I've really got to get home." With no further excuse, Mary left the table and ventured into the living room.

Settling on an ottoman, she bent to pull on the boots she'd shed upon arrival. Feet sore, it had been a homely thing to do, a level of comfort she wasn't aware she would feel in her sister's new home. As she busied herself with ties, she heard the footsteps before the arms slid around her shoulders from behind. Gardenias wafted to her nose, silky hair and petal soft skin met her cheek.

The hug was secure, amazing far from awkward.

"I want to have children someday, Mary," Brandi said softly. "And you know why I don't mind bringing them into this crazy world?" A brief pause for the nonexistent reply. "Because I know you're out there, making it safe for them."

Unbidden, Mary's hand came up to gently clasp her sister's joined ones before her. A full minute passed in such manner until the light tread behind them greeted their personal display with all the aplomb of Ms. Manners.

"Don't spoil your dinner tomorrow night," Peter tsked with a smile, handing Mary a lidded Tupperware still radiating heat. "And please give your boss our deepest congratulations."

Mary stood and turned to give Brandi a hug, then inexplicably followed up with one for Peter. "Thanks," she offered quietly. Jacket donned, Mary left the house quickly, settled into her car and found herself driving.

Lights came and went; traffic thinned. Temperature dropped; wild nightlife sounded. Parts of town she knew, others vaguely, many changed. The curry was cold by the time she realized she needed to talk to someone, a voice that reassured her and calmed her and told her what to do in a way that made her believe it was her own decision. Because that voice knew her.

The digital clock on the dash read after one in the morning. She dialed anyway.

"Hey." Soft, easy.

"Hey," she answered, sudden relief at the sound. "Got a few minutes?"

"For you, always."

-o-

Marshall spoke low, even, listening more often than offering sage words. The decibels made his voice sound gravelly, and he noted Mary's was the same the longer she spoke. She was relaxing, winding down.

Distractedly he noted the dim reflection of the floor lamps off the deep forest green walls, the flashing bright flickers of the muted television. He shifted slightly on the couch, one bare foot arched on the coffee table edge, the other stretched beneath it. I can do this, he thought to himself with a relieved smile. Yeah; I really can make it all work. I still have my best friend.

The realization he didn't have to choose between polar opposite lives eased his heart some, and Marshall leaned his head back against the couch with a tired smile. One hand grasping his phone, the other distractedly smoothing long chestnut locks of the sleeping form whose head lay trustingly upon his lap.