Cowboy? She'd really called him that?

He couldn't take her seriously, not really. She hadn't meant it. But even so, in her terms, a cowboy was a nameless, faceless male who could satisfy without expectations or demands. Someone who didn't care for commitment or anything deeper than physical gratification. Someone who would leave in the morning, wouldn't think about her later, wouldn't care if she called again.

In other words, it was not Marshall Mann, and he sincerely hoped that Mary knew that. She should.

He sat back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, looking blankly over at his partner's vacant desk. It was astonishing how empty a place could feel when only one person had left it. There were no sarcastic jibes, no insults to his appearance, intelligence, physical abilities, or vocabulary, no snarky retorts about witnesses or the general stupidity of humanity, no glares, stares, or smirks in his general direction.

Some might have called the change nice.

Marshall hated it.

He hated that there was only Stan and Charlie and Eleanor for company. He hated that there were moments where he would think of something only Mary would get, only to remember that she wasn't there. He hated not seeing her, even if she was in one of her frequent "pissed at the world" moods, because he knew how to kick her out of them, or at least, how to keep her from killing anyone. He hated not knowing where she was, or what she was doing, or who she was with. He hated that he was alone.

He hated that he was bored.

Mary needed a vacation, he knew that. It didn't mean that he liked it. He would much rather have her here, in front of him, making his world a little more difficult and a lot more enjoyable.

Cowboy? Hardly. He cared more about Mary than any partner ever should. He thought about her when he shouldn't think about her. And he was fairly certain that, after his conversation with her that morning, she knew it too.

Because he did dream about her. Often. He had done so for a long time. Over the last few months, however, it seemed to be occurring with an alarming frequency. And the dreams were changing. Where before they had ranged from random nothingness to frantic searches on his part for her to reliving anxious moments in the hospital, now they were becoming personal, physical, and yes, on occasion, even promiscuous. Those terrified him the most.

And those were the mornings where he considered not coming to work, simply because he didn't know how to face her after the dreams he'd had.

But inevitably, he would come, because being without Mary was far worse than any awkwardness he could feel in being with Mary. Such was her charm, and her hold on him.

And last night hadn't been the first time he'd woken up in a panic. He had quite a number of dreams, particularly after her kidnapping and shooting incidents, where the hellish reality was relived in his dreams to varying degrees. Once he couldn't find her, couldn't do anything to help her, but he'd been able to hear her, hear them, hear everything. More than once, he'd been too late to save her, and had only been able to hold her lifeless body in his arms. After her shooting, the dreams had been dark to a new intensity. Many were hospital dreams, where they couldn't stop her bleeding, and he'd watched her die before his eyes. Others were that they – he—had not been able to reach her in time, and he'd heard mocking laughter in his head, ringing out as he found her on that sidewalk, cold as ice.

And there had been others. Others that were not based on any reality, but were just as terrifying because they had no resolution. There was no relief to be had. When he woke from those nightmares, he was not able to remind himself that they had saved Mary, that she was safe, that the terror was over. Those nights were spent pacing the floor of nearly every room, anxiously trying to dissuade himself from driving over to her house and assuring himself that she was safe. He had actually made it to his car a total of five times before giving up and waiting for daylight on his couch. He had always been able to talk himself out of those rash actions he considered, because he knew Mary would flay him alive for being so overprotective.

He couldn't help it any more than he could help loving her.

And that was why his current dreams worried him. If these feelings and dreams of his weren't going to come to fruition, there was no way he could continue on this manner, watching her, waiting for her, wishing…

He sighed and stretched his arms over his head, working out the kinks that sitting at a desk all day inevitably brought. He'd somehow managed to be actively engaged in various endeavors all day, and so he'd been able to avoid these deep contemplations on his partner and his growing need for her. Distraction helped ease the burdens of his mind, but only slightly. It was difficult to ignore them. Everything was better with Mary around, even if she was grumpy, mouthy, insulting, and tactless. She was still his Mary, even when he didn't understand why she was.

"Still here, Marshall?" Stan asked as he came out of his office, leaving for the day, no doubt.

"Yeah, I was just finishing up some stuff," he said, sitting forward and shuffling papers on his desk.

"Uh huh." Stan eyed him carefully, but said nothing else.

Marshall maintained his careful poker face. "You haven't seen the file on the Renauldo case, have you?" he asked, thumbing through his files again.

"No," Stan grunted, still watching him, "but I think Mary had it before she left. Check her things, if you dare." He chuckled darkly.

"I don't have a death wish," Marshall said, raising his hands in surrender. "It can wait until she gets back. When do you expect her?"

Something flashed across Stan's expression and he smiled more than a little knowingly. "If she's back before Thursday, I told her I would shoot her."

"She said that."

"Oh, so you talked to her?"

Crap. Marshall winced inwardly and leaned forward, arms on his desk. "Yeah, she, uh, called me this morning."

"About?"

"Just checking up on a few things." He shrugged nonchalantly. At least, he hoped it was nonchalantly. "Mary doesn't like vacation. Said she wanted to come back sooner, and that the salt water smelled funny."

Stan snorted and shook his head. "She would. Well, she doesn't have to stay in-" he hesitated.

"Hawaii," Marshall interjected without thinking.

"Oh, you know? Damn, now I owe her ten bucks. Yeah, Hawaii. She doesn't have to stay there, she just can't be here. You can tell her that if she calls again." He sighed. "But after a morning like we had, I almost wish she had been here."

"I do wish she was here," Marshall said with a grin. "Five kids under the age of six? She would have had a field day."

"And you and I would be trying to hide the bodies right about now."

"Undoubtedly."

Stan shouldered his bag and nodded to him. "Well, have a nice night. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Stan."

Marshall chuckled as Stan left the office. It had been an entertaining day, and he couldn't wait to tell Mary about it.

Just then, his cell rang, vibrating against his desk. He frowned, wondering who would be calling him. He checked the screen.

Mary.

"Uh oh," he muttered. Maybe she decided not to forgive him after all. More than a little apprehensive, he answered. "Hey, you forget to say something earlier?"

"Shut up and listen, doofus," she bit out and he stilled, waiting for the attack. "Just because I happen to call you Cowboy does not mean that I lump you in with the rest of the yayhoos that run around the world, all right?"

He jerked in his seat and his eyes widened. How could she possibly…

"I mean, really, Marshall? Are you that sensitive? Ok, I know I could have used a better word, but gimme a break. You wear boots and you're a marshal and you are practically a cowboy, but not one of those cowboys, ok? Seriously, John Wayne and Clint Eastwood were cowboys, too."

"Actors," he murmured, still in shock. "They are actors, Mare."

"Well, duh, nitwit, but they played cowboys a lot! Seriously, they're on AMC all the time for westerns. But just because I happen to use that word a lot and in a lot of ways doesn't mean that you get to choose the wrong way to interpret, all right? Do you understand?"

He smiled softly. "Yeah, I think so, Mare. But did you really call me about some offhand comment you made this morning? I mean, it wasn't even insulting. You've doled out worse things than that on my birthdays."

There was a moment of silence, in which he was positive he could hear her squirm. "Well, yeah. I could hear that you didn't like it and I felt bad."

"Really?" A warm feeling flooded his chest and his smile grew.

She huffed. "Oh for cryin' out loud, I do feel bad sometimes, Marshall. Give me a little credit."

"I know you do, I'm sorry. I just didn't think you'd think anything of it."

"Normally, I wouldn't. But it's you, Marshall, and I didn't want…" She trailed off and hesitated.

He held his breath. "Didn't want what?" he asked softly.

He heard a small sigh. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that you're not one of them, ok? Not to me. You're my partner and the only person on this earth who really gets me and so far above the rest of them it's not even funny. And I'm sorry if my calling you Cowboy offended you."

All of the breath in him rushed out at her words and he closed his eyes. It wasn't exactly what he was looking for, but it was a definite step in the right direction, however impossible it seemed. "It didn't," he managed, somehow keeping his voice calm. "But thanks for checking. It means a lot." It meant a whole hell of a lot more than a lot, but he would take this slow.

"Yeah, sure thing. Just don't let it go to your head, all right?"

He grinned. "Oh, I think it's too late for that, but I'm fairly certain you'll deflate it soon enough."

She grumbled something he didn't catch about a Twinkie, then said, "So I'm kinda digging this whole beach scene."

That surprised him. "Really? Why is that?"

"Well, I can just sit around and read in the sun in this bikini I picked up and whenever I get too warm, there's an ocean in front of me."

He tried very hard not to picture her in the bikini with the ocean water sluicing over her various curves. It didn't work. "So you went swimming today?"

"Uh huh, a few times. One time I even just laid down on the sand and let the waves hit me. It was way cooler than I thought it would be, cuz I've seen that old movie with the couple in the waves, what is it?"

"From Here To Eternity," he gritted out between his clenched teeth. His mind was racing, and he was trying to throw up as many roadblocks as he could, but was failing desperately.

"Yeah, that one. It looks totally lame in that, but it's really not. You should try it."

"Uh huh." He cleared his throat, struggling to rein his thoughts in. She had just unknowingly described one of his most vibrant dreams about her, and he would certainly like to try it, but he highly doubted she would take that suggestion in the right spirit.

"So," he said, changing the subject as quickly as possible, "anything fun planned?"

"Fun's a matter of opinion," she quipped darkly, bringing another smile to his face, "but the hotel's planning this big hooplah thing tomorrow night. Some big local thing, I dunno."

"A luau?"

"Sure. There will probably be strange fish there, unfortunately."

He stifled a laugh. "I imagine so. You are on an island, after all."

"I know that, doofus. I just wish there wouldn't be so much fish."

"Ok, here's question to consider, Mary: why did you go to Hawaii if you don't enjoy the aroma of the salt water or the local variations of indigenous fish?"

"Because it puts a huge body of water between me and anybody I want to shoot."

That seemed fair enough. "And that's your idea of relaxing?"

"Well, it sure as hell seems to work for me."

He couldn't argue with her logic, so didn't attempt to. "You know, the traditional luau feast has much more than just fish. There could be poi, kalua pig, haupia, char siu…"

"Yeah, I understood the pig in that jumble, so that works for me. Anything else?"

"Well, traditionally there's beer, and-"

"Thank God."

"And other various alcoholic beverages, most of which you've probably already had, thanks to your grandpa friends."

"I could get used to this luau business."

He laughed out loud and leaned back in his chair. "Just try not to do anything you'll regret remembering, ok?"

"Shut up, Marshall," she muttered. "So are we good?"

He raised his eyebrows. "We were not good?"

"You know what I mean."

"Ah." He looked over at her desk, sighed, and smiled. "Yeah, Mare. We're good."

"Good." He could hear her hesitating, and he couldn't think why.

"Mare? You ok?"

She made a quiet, frustrated noise. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Hear inside my head."

"I am a supremely gifted being."

She scoffed. "Well, don't take this the wrong way, your Mighty Supreme-ness, but um...I kinda wish you were here. Is that weird?"

He swallowed with difficulty, and gripped his phone tighter. "No, it's not. I miss you, too."

"'Kay. Bye."

"Bye." He shut his phone and held it for a long moment, thinking over their conversation. She said he was the only person who really got her, which was true. She'd said as much before. But what Mary failed to realize was that she was one of the very few, if not the only, people in this world who understood him. The number of moments that they had shared together, good and bad, had only deepened their relationship, which seemed to be almost symbiotic sometimes. They knew each other, in ways very few people ever understood another human being.

And he knew that, in one way or another, things were changing between them. They were nearing a precipice. The trick would be to see how close to the edge they could get without one or both plummeting off of it.

Or jumping.