A/N: I am glad I surprised at least some people with the last chapter! Hopefully you enjoy the next one!

XXX

Even once he had absolved himself of the kids, Marshall still wasn't sure what to do. Funny, how five minutes ago he'd been ready to play mind games with the best of them, only to be knocked off his feet in no time flat. It was different when it was family – or whatever you wanted to call James. Nonetheless, this whole nightmarish scenario was hitting Marshall faster than he was ready for it.

How could he possibly know how to act? Did he continue to play it cool? Until when – until Mary got home? Something told him that even though his wife was indeed a trained inspector, she wouldn't be able to keep her alarm from showing once she saw who was standing in their midst. Marshall also didn't like to think about what would occur if he didn't show his hand; Mary walking in on he and James chatting like old friends would be sure to give her a heart attack.

No, even though he despised himself for it, Marshall knew he was going to have to concede defeat. If things got ugly, he could overpower James, gun or no gun. Something deep inside didn't think they'd be resorting to that, but he couldn't say why he held such a hunch.

Feeling as though his feet had lead in them, Marshall stodgily made his way back up the hall, wiping palms that had become increasingly sweaty on the old jeans he'd been wearing in his preparation of cleaning the house.

James was right where he'd left him, drumming his fingers on the countertop, wholly blasé. Now that Marshall saw him for who he was, it all made sense. The man was a professional at keeping people out of his business, at swaying those against him to see his side of the coin. Of course he wasn't nervous. He was a con.

"Your girl all right?" he queried over his shoulder.

Something about the phrasing caused Marshall to feel as though his chest had been drowned in ice. Walking into the kitchen, he knew he looked as aghast as he felt, mouth halfway open, eyes racing in all directions, scanning the face of the person who had caused Mary so much grief – so much unresolved and unbelievable sadness.

For that matter, hearing Lizzie called 'his girl' was eerie. She was 'his girl' of course, but that moniker had always been reserved for Mary. If James were any kind of a father, any kind of a human being, he would know this. He would not have mistaken him for Peter. He would know exactly who had shouted from the back room and that she had a twin – that they were the love and light of Mary's life. They would be his grandchildren, his heart and soul.

But, he was none of those things. He was a just a runaway fraud who was now looking at Marshall's pale face with mild amusement.

"Your girl…" he repeated. "She okay?"

Marshall's breath snagged inside his throat, and the accusation surged from his lips before he could help himself; the dam broke and the water flowed downstream.

"You're Mary's father."

It was a whispered exclamation; the urgency was apparent, the way Marshall hushed like he couldn't believe his eyes or ears. Raptly, he stared at James, shaking his head and wondering fervently what was going to happen next.

As if the whole development wasn't sickening enough already, James seemed absolutely unruffled by his cover being blown. With a modest half-smirk on his face, he held up his hands and bowed his head – caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"What gave me away?"

Why wasn't he afraid? Why wasn't he cowering at Marshall's feet? He had to know he was a US Marshal. He ought to be terrified. It was galling that he was not.

"A…picture…" he spluttered moronically. "There's a picture of you in the kids' bedroom…" he instantly wished he hadn't mentioned the kids, but James already knew about one of them. "What…why are you here?"

As soon as the question took flight, Marshall knew that the answers were going to be endless, and probably none of them satisfying, but it was a reflex to interrogate. It didn't really matter what he was told anyway; if Marshall had his way, the guy was going to jail the minute he got the most knowledge about his existence that he was going to.

"Well, I came to see Brandi…" he was awfully forthright for a felon. "We hooked up a few days ago so I could transfer the rest of the money, but then she took off; I was thinking she might come to Mary's…" a shrug. "It's not the grand entrance I was looking for down the road, but you do what you have to…"

Marshall had not a clue what to make of this. It seemed he'd been right about James and the younger daughter though. He was the secret piece of the unholy trinity that was made up of Brandi and Scott. It inspired nothing but disbelief; he wasn't even Marshall's father and he was still lost for words.

"So, you were just going to show up on your daughter's doorstep – a daughter you haven't seen in over forty years?" the incredulity had just been masquerading as fury. Marshall's voice climbed up an octave and heightened several pitches in volume, "Do you have any idea what she's going to think when she sees you here…?!"

But, no sooner had he finished his sentence than the sound of the front door being unlocked met their ears. Marshall panicked, hating that he was acting so defenseless, but he would clean up once Mary materialized. It seemed that moment was going to be upon them in no time, and it was like a train wreck – Marshall longed to stop it and yet couldn't. He didn't know how. This was one calamity he could not fix.

"I was here to help Brandi…" James insisted, ignoring the clicking locks. "But of course I've wanted to see Mary for ages…"

"How could you? How could you just…?"

The examination was no more. Mary and Delia appeared, each carrying a coffee, Mary with her back turned to shut the harsh cold out onto the front stoop. James, too, was not facing the hatch, but was still focused on Marshall. The women would only be able to see the back of his head, but they were definitely going to pick up on the shell-shock the inspector was displaying.

"Hello!" Delia trumpeted, her cheerfulness a severe and unwelcome contrast to the hell that was about to break lose. "Where are those darlings? We grabbed some hot chocolate on our run!"

"Marshall…" Mary flung her bag onto the couch and deposited her keys and sunglasses on the end table, sweeping her bangs out of her eyes. "Why is there a car in the…?"

The sound of her voice obviously meant that James could not reel himself in. After all, he hadn't heard it in forty years. Lower, deeper, more mature and less childlike, he still knew the timbre of his daughter no matter how much time had gone by. Marshall watched in horror as he stood from his stool and turned around, as though in slow-motion. To his credit, he was not smiling, but there was an inkling in those eyes that showed just how rapacious he truly was.

The husband felt like he'd stepped into a movie – a horrible dark drama that would have most individuals weeping in their seats. He knew he was bearing witness to the reunion Mary had envisioned in her head millions of times, but he also knew that no matter how she'd pined for her father, she'd never really feel anything but rage and misery if he ever returned.

The look on her face nearly ripped his heart clear out of his chest. If he was astonished, it was nothing as to how Mary appeared. Enormous green eyes broadened so they seemed to fill her entire face; they were spinning like the earth itself, two magnificent globes whose centers reflected the scene of a man who'd torn her, cleaved her soul right in half. Like Marshall, Mary's lips fell open, forming a tiny space just big enough for one to poke their finger through – like they did with Ben and Lizzie when they were babies and were trying to wiggle spoons into their mouths.

There she stood, coffee in hand, jacket halfway unzipped, Delia looking utterly bewildered beside her. The real heartbreak was in those orbs, so vast in what suddenly seemed an unnaturally small face. Marshall saw nothing but agony; he could taste the torment and practically hear her heat beating from ten feet away.

Bizarrely, the first word she managed to speak was just to finish her question.

"…Driveway?"

It seemed to act as a stimulant. Speaking activated her vocal chords, which began to vibrate, which in turn made her eyes sting and burn, pools of tears gathering at lightning spread. Mary's hands started to tremble; she might drop her coffee at any moment, but the way she was trying to breathe just to maintain composure drove all other thought from her mind.

She was dreaming. She absolutely, one hundred percent, had to be dreaming. Her father was not standing in her kitchen. He was not talking to Marshall. It was not his car out front. He had not walked her floors, sat in her chairs, appeared on her doorstep just as she had imagined he would over and over and over again. She'd waited forty years.

The day had not finally arrived.

Shutting her eyes tight, Mary foolishly thought that if she just tried to back up, tried to rewind, that this would not be happening to her. But, when she reopened and took in the landscape once more, he was still there. And all he did was stare at her.

Was he real or not? He didn't move; he didn't speak. What if it wasn't really him?

"Look at you, sweetheart…"

It was him all right. Mary felt weak-kneed just hearing him, but her innards were twisting and writhing in her gut like she was going to vomit any second. James did not help this in the least when he left Marshall at his post and went marching across the hardwood like he owned the place.

He was extending his arms. Now he grinned, and the sight alone was enough to make Mary pass out. What if he touched her? What would she do? Where would she run?

There was no time to figure it out. He was already there – she was in his arms, trapped in his embrace, her chin over his shoulder as she stared blankly at Marshall in that otherworld beyond the living room. Something in the most subterranean depths of Mary's heart wanted to enjoy this moment. Her father – her daddy, her one-time-hero – was hugging her. They were together again; she was his and he was hers. It had been her greatest fantasy as a little girl that he would return and shelter her close just like this.

But, regardless of how she attempted to revel in it, she couldn't get pass how alien it was. His contact was not comforting, but close to repulsive. She felt prickly being so near to him and wanted to paw him away, but couldn't make herself do it. Eventually, he took the hint and stepped back, marveling at her like he saw nothing at all strange about the fact that they were here sharing each other's company after so many years apart.

"Jesus, you are gorgeous…" he praised, running a hand over her honey-blonde hair, which produced tingles that made Mary feel like she was having a stroke. "What is it about this face? Just like when you were in grade school."

It was all too surreal for Mary. She was outside herself, but not enough to finally collect her bearings. James was a felon. He was a criminal. This pattern pounded itself into her brain like a sledgehammer whacking her skull. It was the very strong rational portion of her US Marshal mind kicking into overdrive.

He is a felon. He is a criminal. He is a felon. He is a criminal.

She had to get him out of the house.

Her first and only concern, once she snapped into gear, was not for herself, but for the kids. Where were they? She was going to have to assume the bedroom because she was incapable of talking in front of this man. The only goal she had was to get rid of them. She could not bear the thought of James interacting with them, of him seeing them and vise versa. He would be charming and courteous, she was sure of it, and there was no chance in hell she was giving Ben and Lizzie any kind of opportunity to warm up to him. They were hers. Hers and only hers. No part of their flawless, five-year-old selves belonged to James.

Some force drove her to grab Delia's arm in a vice grip and drag her out the front door they had just come through. Marshall had to be going crazy by this point. She had said absolutely nothing; had offered no reaction whatsoever, but now she was driven by blind endurance. It was like when she'd been abducted; nothing else mattered but getting out alive and avoiding as much hurt as possible.

Somehow, Mary wasn't sure how, they ended up on the front porch with the door having shut behind them. Delia looked sincerely confused, her chocolate brown eyes scanning all over Mary's stupefied face for evidence as to what was going on.

"What…what is happening?" she blurted out. "Who is that? Why is he…?"

Mary seized her by her forearms and spoke with a desperation she didn't know she possessed.

"I need you to take the kids."

Every word was quavering, each one several syllables longer because Mary's voice was shaking so violently, not to mention her fingers on Delia's coat. The other inspector was shaking her head, not as if to say no, but to indicate she was still totally lost.

"What? Why?"

"I need you to take Ben and Lizzie!" it was all Mary could get out, and loudly this time as if to emphasize just how essential it was. "Please! Please take them…take them anywhere; just get them out of here…"

The tears came, only a few at a time, and in the dustiest recesses of her brain, Mary knew that crying in front of Delia under ordinary circumstances would be cause for eternal humiliation. As it was, this didn't even register at first.

"Of course I'll take them, Mary, but…"

"He's…that's…"

Could she admit to it? Could she face the fact that-that man rooted to the spot just on the other side of the door really was…?

"That…he's…he's my-my…" Delia was patient while Mary very nearly fell to pieces, but also chastised herself not to go completely postal. "That's…that's my dad…"

The blow was crushing, as was the third look of distress that had presented itself that morning. Fortunately, Delia only allowed herself a moment's astonishment before getting down to business. Now that she knew her place and knew what was on the line, she too flew into US Marshal mode; it was a persona they could all adopt in heinous circumstances, and Mary was instantly grateful she had been along for the coffee run.

"They're in good hands," she declared forcefully, drawing herself up to her full height. "I'll get them out quick as you can blink; where are they?"

"I…I don't…" Mary was afraid she might hyperventilate; she was so lightheaded. "I don't know…they're probably not even dressed…"

What was she going to do once they saw him? They'd have to pass through the living room to leave.

"I'll get their clothes on and we'll be off," Delia was no-nonsense to a fault. "Are they in their room?"

"I…prob…probably…" Mary stammered. "I don't know for sure."

"You leave it to me."

With a rough slap on the back, Delia had let herself right back inside before Mary could tell her to stop, but she was a woman on a mission. The blonde wished she could say the same for herself. It was going to take all her strength to just to put one foot in front of the other. What she'd stumbled in on after coming back from a simple errand to Starbucks was replaying over and over in her mind, like her life was flashing before her eyes.

She didn't just see James planting himself in her adult home, a position where he was vastly out of place, but she saw him walking out the door of their duplex in New Jersey in that same white button-down shirt with the navy pinstripes. The two images would not equate. How could the same person who had run out on her and her mother and her sister be standing with her husband like nothing was wrong? Had he really expected to be welcomed back with open arms? If so, he'd certainly gotten his wish, though Mary had hardly reciprocated his touchy-feely show.

Mary had no idea how long she stayed outside, probably worrying Marshall to death, but she eventually managed to turn the knob and head back into the warmth, praying that she would see the kids emerge soon. Her greatest fear was them figuring out who the strange man in their home was, and she knew they were going to bombard her with questions no matter how fast Delia whisked them away. Lizzie would want to know why they were leaving, and Ben would pry and maybe even – dear God – put on some sort of spectacle for his grandfather.

His grandfather? Mary felt more ill by the second, especially once she saw that Marshall had joined James at his elbow, like he was ready to knock him down if the situation permitted it.

What in the world was she supposed to say? She didn't want to wait around for James to start stroking her ego again; the way he'd praised her looks and spoken so endearingly was tantalizing, but equally disgusting. Why did he have to be so damned perplexing? He always had been.

Marshall looked as though it was killing him not to speak, or else not to race across the room and console his wife. She just crossed her arms over her chest and tried her best to look stony, but she knew she could not be pulling it off very effectively.

Fortuitously, Delia was lightning fast in retrieving Ben and Lizzie. Within five minutes she was back; both kids were dressed and she was chattering excitedly at them, obviously hoping they would be too distracted to notice what was going on. While still in the hall, this worked beautifully.

"You brought hot chocolate?" Lizzie bleated enthusiastically. "With marshmallows too?"

"Oh, you betchya!" Delia was similarly animated. "We'll have to drink it soon though or it'll get cold!"

"I want mine first," Ben displayed his trademark miser qualities. "Can we drink it in the car?"

"Of course," Delia was agreeable to anything. "Let's shake a leg; I'm gonna have you all help me finish some Christmas shopping and then we can go to lunch, maybe to another movie…"

"We were supposed to clean our room," Lizzie piped up, earning her a hearty 'shh!' from Ben. "Won't daddy be mad?"

"Oh, daddy will be fine with you taking a break…"

Then they appeared, two thirds of the threesome unaware of the chaos radiating around them. Mary thought for one wild moment that they were actually going to disappear without noticing anything; Delia was doing a spectacular job guiding them and yakking at them so they didn't even need to look up. But, that perception was far too good to be true, and it was Lizzie whose eyes flashed upward.

"Daddy! Delia said we…"

Painfully shy, she recoiled the minute she saw the unknown among them. Closer to Delia than to her father, she nudged herself back a few inches to hide behind the lady inspector. This might've all worked out for the best if it weren't for Ben.

"Who are you?" he demanded boldly.

James ogled adoringly at the children; there was no denying the obvious glee on his face, but if he made one false move, if he so much as spoke or, heaven forbid tried to touch them, the lioness inside Mary would rear its head and he would be done for. It wouldn't even matter if the twins saw or not; keeping them safe was everything to her.

To her immense relief, James did not say anything. Marshall did, in an oddly constricted sort of voice.

"Go with Delia, spark," the man said softly. "Mom and I are just taking care of something."

The grandfather's quiet brushed the stillness, "I'll see you, sport."

Mary jumped so quickly she likely would've tripped and fallen over the rug if it weren't for Marshall holding up his hand to slow her. It wasn't a buffer that would last very long, but his omnipresent calmness was just enough for this moment – just enough to keep her from coming undone.

"Go on," Marshall reminded his son again. "Mom and I will call Delia later to see how you're doing."

Recognizing her cue, Delia led the children the rest of the way through the living room, pausing only briefly to grab their coats, which she didn't put on, insisting they could do that in the car.

"Bye mama…" Lizzie whispered with a sweet little wave.

Somehow, the woman found her voice, "Bye baby."

Choking back another wave of tears so painstakingly Mary thought she might suffocate before long, she was given a reprieve once her children finally departed. If nothing else, she could at least be certain they would be out of the fire once the fur started to fly. James seemed to take their absence as consent to converse, but it was nothing Mary wanted to hear, and least of all from him.

"You make good-looking kids, sweetheart…" an admiring wag of his head. "Are they twins?"

She could've killed him. She could've torn across the room, then and there, and just throttled him around the neck, but she knew that task was best left to Marshall – and in a much more refined way.

"You aren't here for some kind of cozy catch-up," the taller man accused. "And even if you were, no one's going to stick around to listen to it."

"No?" he paid Marshall no mind, and instead focused on Mary, who still had not spoken to him or moved any closer. "Well, that's all right. I knew the risk I was taking by coming here. At least I got to see my Mary," his eyes almost glittered in their immense blueness.

They looked exactly like Ben's.

"Go ahead…" he sighed cooperatively. "Make your calls."

Mary couldn't be so stupid as to fall for this. The man was a con for a reason. He snowed people for a living – that was how he'd been on the run from the FBI forever. So now he was just going to pack up a life a crime for two minutes with a mute daughter that very clearly couldn't wait for him to leave? On what planet would he do such a thing?

But, whether Mary or Marshall bought his claims was fairly irrelevant. They were the ones with the guns and the handcuffs. Wordlessly, Mary groped in Marshall's coat pocket and tossed him his silver loops. All these years she'd told herself that if James ever showed his lousy face she'd cuff him at hello, and here Marshall was going to do it for her. He didn't seem to mind.

And the rest of the exchange became white noise; Mary grew numb to all that was happening around her. It was likely a defense mechanism ingrained in her psyche; a person could only take so much, and after the disaster with Brandi, this had pushed her over the edge.

Marshall read him the Miranda and clicked the cuffs into place. James didn't even fight him.

He dialed his cell and told Stan who was waiting in their house and that he would be wise to bring backup. Again, James did not flinch.

While they waited, Marshall stood steadily in front of their prisoner, as upstanding and honorable as they came. James gave him no reason to guard.

And then came the noisy, rapping knock on the front door with Stan's voice bellowing, "US Marshals!" He brought with him one FBI agent and two detectives from the police department, guns drawn as they surrounded James, took in his appearance while Mary watched it all unfold through a hazy film. She didn't know how much longer she could hold on, how much longer she could be stoic and unwavering, presenting the façade that she was far from disheveled by her father's appearance.

Stan was in his element, being a full-on badass as he spit in James' face, seemingly not even noticing Mary. She liked it that way. His compassion would've just broken her down faster.

It wasn't until they finally frog-marched him to the door that everyone in the vicinity seemed to take in the daughter's spectator view from the sidelines. They paused with James' hands behind his back, for what reason Mary didn't know, but it gave him a chance to add a few last words.

"You have to know I wanted to come back so many times, Mary…" he was a liar; such a filthy rotten liar. "It was out of my hands…" and fibbing still further. "I never wanted it to get to the point where you'd have to do this to me…"

He did not speak about his predicament like it was Mary's fault, rather that he knew he had failed her and being responsible for his arrest wasn't something he'd calculated. From her place next to the couch, Mary just stared straight ahead, refusing to give him any satisfaction, refusing to allow even a flicker of emotion to pass through her features.

"You were such a blessing, Mary…" the fourth word sounded foreign coming out of his mouth. "The light of my life. They could lock me up for the rest of my days and I wouldn't regret coming back here to see you."

Her lip started trembling, and so she bit down hard, almost tasting blood, but she would not allow him to win.

"You always knew how to do the right thing…" funny he should mention that. "I could've learned from you, sweetheart. It just makes me love you even more."

Stan, who was nearby, must've sensed they were running out of time before Mary erupted, and he indicated that his fellows send the felon on his way.

"Let's go," he pointed toward the door. "Get this bastard in a cell."

Recognizing the seriousness of the chief's words, the crew dragged James onward, Stan struggling with himself before vanishing behind them, trying to decide if he should pass any words of wisdom on to Mary. He decided against it, knowing she would value him doing his job and taking care of the messiest parts more than a drawn out goodbye.

And, it was a good thing they left when they did. The door shut with an almighty slam and Mary lost it. A sniveling, breathless sob escaped as she pitched forward onto her knees, hanging her head; sure she was going to throw up her breakfast on the spot. It was horrible. It was beyond horrible having in the here and now. Why had she ever thought she would enjoy it?

Marshall bolted the entire length of the room like a marathon runner; it had undoubtedly been eating away at him that he couldn't soothe her during one of the most dreadful moments in her life.

"Mary…"

Somehow, she straightened once he appeared right in front of her, but she was shuddering all over, from her hands to her feet. Moisture dampened her cheeks, streamed around her nose and mouth, making it still harder to see and hear and process everything that had gone on.

One way or another though, she was glad to finally regain the ability to speak.

"Mary…" Marshall repeated, hands fluttering in her face, but she took off running now that it was just the two of them.

"What is he doing here?" she gasped, still unsteady on her feet and wobbling on the hardwood. "Why is he here?! What does he want?!"

"Well, I don't know, I think…"

But, Mary didn't give him a chance to finish, "What about the kids?!"

"The kids are with…"

Again, he was not meant to respond, but to allow her to ramble, "Did the kids see him? The kids – did they see him? Did they talk to him? Did he…did he do anything…?"

"No…no, of course not," Marshall reassured her as fast as he could, running a hand up and down her arm, afraid she was going to topple to the ground. "The most he saw was when Delia took them out; that's it. They were already in their room when he came to the door."

But, Mary was in a full-on freak out; bawling so hard that her shirt was getting wet, that her nose was clogged and snot was dripping everywhere. The closest she'd been to such panic was when she'd gone into premature labor with the twins, and she really couldn't ascertain which was worse.

"What is he doing here?" she kept asking even though she didn't wait for Marshall to tell her. "Why would he come back now? He always spoils everything; I can't believe that he would do this…"

"I know," Marshall stated sympathetically, squeezing her shoulder. "I think that he came because Brandi…"

Mention of her sister changed Mary's demeanor at the drop of her hat. Gazing at her partner out of narrowed eyes, eyes that were bloodshot and leaking, a new kind of mistrust took over, and it was brutal.

"Brandi?!" she hollered, sounding livid as well as despondent. "Brandi brought him here?!"

Marshall wasn't about to tell her to calm down, because not only would it just upset her further, but it would be to no avail. She had every right to be ranting and raving and crying her eyes out; it was hard for him to see her as such, but knew it was crucial that he allow the poisonous ache she was feeling to run its course.

"I don't think she brought him here so much as…" Marshall hedged, wondering what the proper verbiage would be. "Gave him a map? You remember how Stan said he suspected there was a third person in negotiations with Brandi and Scott?"

He peered hard into her face, certain it was awful for her to see reason when she probably wanted terribly to be irrational. But, there was also a part of Marshall that wanted the whole rotten truth to make a little bit of sense. Right now, Mary was spiraling out of control because she couldn't fathom how or why her father would emerge out of the shadows after four decades away. Bringing Brandi into the fold at least helped to put the story together.

"It was him?" Mary's disbelief didn't abate one iota. "She ripped Peter's heart out and abandoned Holly and the rest of us, worried mom out of her mind – for HIM?!"

The way she was yelling frightened her husband, eyes popping in her tortured face, voice ripping and splintering even the highest of octaves.

"I don't know…" the man whispered, refusing to let go of her shoulder. "But, it looks that way."

The anger vanished almost as quickly as it had come on, to be replaced by revulsion once more.

"Marshall, I'm gonna be sick…" a hefty gulp worked its way through. "I'm gonna be sick…"

She was indeed holding her stomach rather awkwardly, crunching as though it was hurting her, but Marshall didn't entirely believe hurling was going to be the end result. He was more concerned about the tears still rolling down her cheeks and the way she couldn't manage to get a grip on herself, though he hardly blamed her for behaving erratically.

"Tell me what you want to do," he requested gently, gripping her bones still harder. "Do you want to stay here and wait for a call from Stan? Would you rather catch up with Delia and the kids?" he didn't imagine she would choose that, not when she was in such a frenzy. "You and I can go out by ourselves – or we can go down to the police station and see what's going on…"

It was important to give Mary options so she wouldn't have to think of them herself, and even though he presented all the choices he'd prefer at the onset, he also knew which one she was likely to tack onto. Mary was a woman of action; she'd rather die than sit on her ass when she could be in the thick of the fray.

"We're going."

She was forceful even through the rivulets trickling down her face.

"We're going. Let's go…"

But, Marshall couldn't help noticing that she made no move to leave. She stayed where she was, and each time she repeated herself, more wetness dribbled in its ponds to the point where she was submerged in her own tears – a colossal, misshapen mess.

"Let's go…we-we need…we need to go…"

They would in time, but Marshall could watch her destruct no longer. With her voice still beating its rhythm, he bestowed her a swift hug where the sobs became muffled but no less distraught once they were buried inside his chest. There was nothing he could say or do; he could only hold her and tickle his hand up and down her back, leaving a kiss on her hair for good measure. There was nothing he hated more than hearing Mary cry, but it was unavoidable in this instance. It was too much too soon, too fast, too hard, and too horrendous to expect her to stay strong.

"I did miss him…" a waterlogged confession finally eked out, lips pressed to the buttons of Marshall's top.

"I know," it was his favorite saying when things were so manic.

With the more shameful admission came a more forthright one as well, "But, I'd never leave the kids for him."

And Marshall didn't need to be reassured in such a department.

"I know that too."

XXX

A/N: I have a hard time not writing James the way he was on the show because honestly, how he was on the show was how I always pictured him! I always thought he would flatter and dote on Mary, whether it means anything to her or not.