A/N: I understand the site is having quite a few issues! My review count has gone up and down fourteen notches throughout the course of the day LOL! Really bad timing if there's a problem for yours truly with this chapter because…

Well…YOU can decide what the italics are… :D

XXX

Carolyn still couldn't believe it was Sunday night already. Sometimes, the days seemed to drag indefinitely and others she could hardly reconcile the fact that she'd been in Albuquerque nearly two weeks. It felt like so much longer and yet felt like nothing at all. Time and space had elapsed each other here – come to a standstill until she saw those fated blue eyes that matched her own.

Remembering vaguely, somewhere very far in the back of her mind, that Marshall was maybe going to come off the ventilator the next day, she didn't feel overly optimistic. Maybe it was the tiredness, maybe it was the fact that she'd been stuck in neutral so long; she wasn't sure. But it was going to be a lonesome night, just the two of them before the Monday dawn. Mary was at home with Sam, and Sam alone, determined to have a normal start to the week with her son. Griffin and Julian had already crashed in the waiting room when she'd arrived after dinner, and she hadn't felt like waking them up.

As she sat at Marshall's bedside, she reflected what he might be thinking if he were watching from above. Not from heaven, necessarily, just from afar, just until he could pull himself far enough inward to experience it for himself. Would he be unhappy to see them all so distraught? Would he feel okay, if he knew he was going to be the same? Likely, he'd simply be worried – worried about their well-being, their time, their energy, and everything else. He was a great worrier.

A great friend.

Monitors steady, ventilator humming along, rise and fall of night and day, things just stayed steady and present, as Marshall himself always did.

Could he feel anything in there? Would he speak to her if he could? Try to tell her something? She was his mother, after all. Nobody knew a boy like his mother.

This made her think of Mary and Sam. Then she realized, the time may have passed for a boy's contemplation of his caregiver. He had a wife and a son of his own to be concerned with. They were his family.

But it had been Carolyn who had taught him not to make the jump until you were ready. To always fall against the plunge, but do it when it counts. Don't wait if the time is now. But don't run too soon if it just isn't time.

Funny thing, about time.

"Daddy! Daddy!" he cried and held his elbow, tears streaming down his face.

The grass was hot, the flies were buzzing, and his elbow hurt where he'd hit it on the ground. It really-really hurt.

"Marshall!" called the gruff voice that pounded toward him through the stable's double-doors. "I told you, son! You don't ride bareback!"

He was trying to look tough and not fall apart at the sound of his boy's sobs, but he was quietly calculating, checking to make sure the fall had not really cost him. It had been a very slow trot, at the fastest.

"I'm sorry! I was just trying to get better!"

His elbow hurt. There was a bruise blooming, purple and ghastly. It really-really hurt.

Swirls of color and sound – jumbled voices and bursts of red and black.

"You're a geek, Mann!" snarled the jerk shoving him against the locker. "You're never gonna amount to shit!"

His back was throbbing where it had smashed against the roughness of the closet. Cold, hard metal digging into his bones.

"I'll shoot off both your kneecaps one day," the lanky fifteen-year-old said calmly. "But I wouldn't have to. Because living well is its own reward," the words were inspirational, prophetic.

The bully scoffed and pushed again.

"Try it," he growled.

"It's not exactly hard for me to envision living better than some imbecile like you," he spouted.

But meanwhile, his back was sore and raw. It hurt. It really-really hurt.

A whooshing now – fine and smooth, but too fast to grab the shapes and hues. Blues and greens of striking richness spun themselves in circles of voices long since thought forgotten.

"MARSHALL!"

A hot desert; parched and dry against the warbling warmth and sun. And his shoulder – it was stinging, pulsating painfully against his other limbs although his head was strangely clear. Something spun around in front of him as he cluttered to the dirt. He saw spinning tires, heard blasts of a gun.

Mary was in that car. Someone was going to kill her, if they could manage it. He crawled on his hands and knees, the gravel dirtying his slacks.

A hand on the tire – a hand on the windowsill.

And his fingers found the trigger.

"Marshall, take cover!"

A blur of squealing rims and flying dust until he floated to his knees another time.

"Can you hear me…?"

That voice. It sang to him. Even though his shoulder hurt. It really-really hurt.

There were screams now amongst the bright flags he couldn't catch. There was fear he couldn't place, as though no matter how far or fast he ran he would never reach where he was going.

"Oh Jesus…"

It was Mary. It was Mary on a stretcher, her middle stained and drenched in darkest red. Pools of it, thickets and ponds. Her face, so pale and gaunt. He just ran, but something kept him from getting too close. It was his heart.

"Mary, listen to me – it's not time to go yet…"

Tingling flesh as he pressed his lips to her forehead. He sunk to the floor, enveloped in his own knees, drowning in a river of his own tears.

His heart hurt. It really-really hurt.

It twirled faster now, the sights and sounds. Flying through the black and blue, his wounds smarted heavily, so heavily he wasn't sure he could lift them any longer, but they seemed to waste away. They seeped within for something else.

The old familiar stomping grounds – his home. His home and Mary's home. He wanted to go home.

Mary on the floor of the bathroom, coughing and retching into the toilet; tummy at its fullest size.

"What happened?" he whispered as he knelt beside her.

Her soft, honey hair inside his hands, swept away from her face.

"Nothing…" she gasped. "God…"

"This isn't nothing," he pushed.

"I needed a cup of coffee for the drive to Santa Rosa…"

He could taste the bile; the mention making him nauseous. Half the flavor of the traditional bean, the other the notion of a full-term Mary on the road alone. She could give birth in the middle of the desert.

"Why would you do that?" he persisted. She had to have known it would make her sick.

A tight hand inside his own; an aide in standing up. She rubbed her ribcage and sighed, even winced against the action so unexpected.

And now his chest hurt. It really-really hurt.

He was soaring – flying, weightless and free, channeling his spirit, his body and mind. Tall and high, wonderful and unspoiled. He was pooling everything into this. It was taking every amount of strength he had to make it through. Although he ached all over, every inch from top to bottom, it didn't matter. It didn't matter at all.

This scene was the sharpest. Blurred only at the edges, he heard a monotone beeping; felt a body pressed against his own.

"Mary, I know it's hard but you need to keep pushing…" said a familiar voice from below.

He had his arms around her chest. She turned her head to the side, a silent sign she was about to throw in the towel. Her eyes were closed and tears were leaking around the corners. She was a beautiful profile; even shiny with sweat she was beautiful. She'd been working hard.

Marshall leaned close so she barely had to whisper.

"It hurts…"

"I know babe…"

She didn't hear the term he'd never used before because he covered it by kissing her temple.

"I'm tired…" she moaned.

Her eyes were still closed. She was warm in his embrace as she grimaced. He could feel the way she fought against the urge – fought against the pain. She began to tremble with the effort, not remembering to draw air.

"Mare, breathe – come on; breathe…" Marshall instructed, his face inches from hers as he curled around her shoulder.

There was fear in making the jump. It was a heartbeat falling lower and lower, a little boy depending upon just one person to get him here alive.

"Mary, you've gotta push…" the woman held more urgency now. "He's crowning; he's almost out…"

He saw tear tracks lining her face; he felt her limp hand inside his own but the staccato breaths she managed were a beacon of hope.

"I'm going to count to three…" Marshall decided.

Each second was twice as long. Three – maybe four times as long. But time had stopped in here.

"One…"

Mary stopped shaking. Something was happening.

"Two…"

There was a telltale throb in his hand. A sign of life.

"Three."

The force expended upon him was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was strength of a new power – otherworldly yet tangible. It was digging in his ribs – pressure on his belly.

"Good girl…" he praised. The strain inside his hand never subsided.

The clarity began to spin. Words and voices meshed with one another. Marshall wasn't sure which was his own, which was Mary's, or one not-so-well-known.

"You're almost there…"

"Here he comes…"

One short, agonizing shout among the phrases. It reached Marshall as well; it made him throb and smart low in his gut. It didn't leave him, but he rode on past the pain.

"It's okay; you've got it; keep going…"

"We've got shoulders Mary…"

"You're gonna make it…you're gonna make it…!"

And then – in a churning mass of chaos – the hurt turned upside-down.

The cry caused pain so great it washed into joy. Beaming bright and pure – untouched and unharmed. The face of his son whose tears spoke of ecstasy rather than sorrow.

"Oh Mary…you did it; he's here…"

But his belly still hurt. It really-really hurt.

And suddenly, the color turned to white. Blinding, a constant sun to shield against his lids. He stood perfectly still now. All the sound was gone, and yet he knew he was not alone.

Two pairs of footsteps, one slow and dragging, the other sharp and steady were somewhere nearby. He turned, whirled in circles.

The white faded and Marshall saw them. Two men. Both of them strangely, achingly familiar.

There was nothing here except the three of them. A huge expanse, clouds on every side – a blank slate in each direction.

He found he could move his own feet now. He could get close enough to touch the other two.

"Good to see you son," Seth said in his low rumble as he shook his boy's hand.

"Dad…?" Marshall murmured, clutching his fingers.

He turned to the other man. He hung back, hands in his pockets, gazing through the white instead of at it. He couldn't see the other side.

"Who's…?" the younger Mann felt the need to ask.

Seth shook his head.

"Don't worry about him," the elder, wiser proclaimed. "He's out there now…"

Where was 'out there?' Did Marshall want to go?

"Do I belong with him?" the little boy asked his daddy.

"No…" Seth shook his head confidently. "I don't think so. But you can make your own decision, Marshall."

He'd waited his whole life to hear his father say that.

His whole life.

And all at once, everything rushed in. A crying baby, his aching limbs, and the sound of Mary somewhere far away.

"Can you hear me? Can you hear me…?"

He saw that face floating above his own in a black jacket and a white button-up, soon to be stained with his blood. She looked so scared. He didn't want her to be scared.

"I must've bumped my head…"

"No, son," Seth interrupted. "Not exactly."

Marshall wasn't sure he'd said that aloud.

"I might need to go with him…" he reiterated, pointing to the third man, who was approaching them now. "I know him…"

Did he know him? He wasn't really sure. But some part did. Some part deep inside.

"You're…" Marshall whispered as the man came near, but he couldn't say his name.

The third smiled a smile that nearly broke Marshall's heart. It was so familiar it was frightening. He felt like he could bottle the blue of his eyes in a jar. And then he spoke.

"Please look out for her Marshall. Go home."

There was only one 'her' he wanted to go home to.

"Go home son…"

"But dad…"

"Go home."

Burst.

Flash.

Gasp.

Breathe.

Pain.

Pain. Elbow. Back. Shoulder. Heart. Chest. Belly.

Belly. It hurts. It hurts.

My belly hurts.

Help.

Blink.

Breathe.

"…Marshall?"

A/N: Ha-ha! I probably don't conceal what's going on here very well LOL!

Anyway, I hope this got uploaded okay and my condolences to anyone that has lost or vanishing stories/chapters over the last few days. Has to be so frustrating.