Bit of a disclaimer I guess: I get my best ideas or even just ideas at 3am…so I do apologize for bits and pieces of word usage as a few have pointed out; I'm typically good with grammar. In my usual excitement I tend to jump the gun and post my stories immediately and miss the misspellings here and there. Thanks for the heads up! I'm unsure how far/where I'm taking this story, but I'm just kind of running with the inspiration. I recently got a job, and don't get home until odd hours of the morning. I will finish this though. Authors that leave you hanging make me truly angry. So—I'm getting there!

And it's a beautiful world
Sun is shining so bright
And it tilts through the late summer leaves
But now there's a hole in the sky.
God I wish I could believe in and pray
When everything changes in a day.

Neither partner had ever lived with anyone, not including family. Mary's commitment level was nil—and she hated sharing. Marshall claimed never having found the right person. Roommates were generally lousy mooches in both of their unspoken opinions; college ruined that for people, even the closest friends lashed out after sharing the glorified, standard issue prison cell for such an extended period of time. At least prison cells had a bathroom.

Marshall wanted to laugh at her pensive traveling gaze. Mary had, after the pancake dinner, taken it upon herself to tour Marshall's house. He racked his brain, and knew that she'd never actually been to his place. He had asked, she just never seemed to hear him. Or see him. Too much was always happening around them; witnesses in trouble, paperwork, her on-again-off-again loser boyfriend, her families crazy antics—especially her mother's new desire to be the lead prostitute in a musical, and Mary's general ability to get herself in trouble…often.

He sighed, continuing to wash dishes and coming up with something for them to do—Mary was quick to lose interest. Amusing her was like amusing a toddler. It only worked so long as they knew you weren't trying.

"I didn't know you liked jazz!" Mary called from down the hall. She was in his spare room, what he had turned into his all inclusive office and collectible's room. Records lined shelves much like his books, along with CDs and cassettes, odds and ends, a desk he'd received from his father after he'd been accepted into the Marshal Service. He had a guitar, a saxophone, and a violin stashed in the room's closet—no one knew he'd taught himself to play. No one had asked. Maybe his extensive obsession of hobbies and what he considered "light" reading (Chekov, medical journals), had driven him to be the lonely person he'd become. He had a friend. Mary was his best friend. But therein lay the problem: she was only his friend. He tried to shake that dangerous line of what-if-and-could-be running rampantly through his thoughts.

"You didn't ask!" He yelled back childishly.

Mary snooped through drawers that weren't locked, thumbed through the records, picked up the small valuables he collected. It was all impeccably clean. She had expected that. No dust coated even the tiniest corners. So he was somewhat anal—she could live with that. She stopped.

Why would she think that? Why would she care? Maybe because you're staying with him douchebag! She berated herself for the unwelcome thought. Mary shook her head, scanning the certificates and diplomas and degrees that hung behind his desk. He was proud of his accomplishments, and he had a right to be. He came from a family with expectations; she came from a family of exceptions. They were two of a kind, and two very opposite souls.

And yet the world still spun. The sun came out.

And they were friends.

This was her favorite room, she decided, seating herself in the plush chair of the gorgeous cherry wood desk. Her fingertips grazed the absurdly shiny surface. Somehow she knew this was his true place. Everything in it represented him in some special way; her own house didn't represent her in the least. She'd bought it to have it…and it was infested with her ever intrusive family and crappy memories. Mary would never admit how jealous she was of Marshall's history, she thought, as she looked over all of the shiny, happy people in the photos that perched themselves invitingly at the edge of the desk. Generations, all of U.S. Marshal's.

It was a photo—small, in a simple silver frame, behind what must have been a massive family reunion—that caught her attention. She hated pictures of herself; they'd barely been able to get her to sit still long enough to focus the camera for her Marshal ID before she'd jumped up and left. They always seemed so fake, posed. Really, why did people need so many photos of themselves? Like they couldn't look in a mirror?

But this photo was different. It was from her "surprise" birthday party (another obnoxious tradition in her opinion) and for the life of her she couldn't remember what loser had brought a camera, but she remembered the flashes, never giving much credence to who it may be. She wasn't posed, she was smiling…actually smiling without an ounce of sarcasm, with her gaze catching that of someone out of the frame, beyond the picture taker, but she looked happy. She picked up the photo.

She wanted to know who he got it from.

Her fainting spell earlier in the office hadn't curbed her curiosity—and now she was feeling much more, well, herself—since she'd finally eaten something that didn't look like it belonged on the X-Files. She left the comfort of his spare room, heading to the kitchen where she'd left him.

"Hey, Marshall, I have a question for—"

Her downward gaze at the photo didn't prepare her for what she saw when she looked up. She froze, watching him from where she stood. He was…dancing? She remembered, vaguely, him mentioning mamba classes. Or was it tango? Or salsa? It didn't really matter; she'd probably tuned him out anyway. Her own assumption made her think for a moment; she'd thought it herself a million times. She'd tuned him out. She stared back down at the photo again. He'd never invited her to his place—she had to starve herself to get him to bring her over (well…not that that was intentional), she assumed he'd be wherever she wanted at the drop of a hat, when clearly she knew nothing about her partner. Her best friend. If the various knick-knacks and books and records were any indication. On some level he knew her completely…knew she hated pictures of herself, which in retrospect, meant he probably got the photo from her mother, or maybe even Brandi.

The music had stopped. Lost in thought she hadn't heard him stop the CD, or ask her a question of his own.

"Sorry…what?" she asked.

"I said, do you want to dance?" She scrunched her nose and raised an eyebrow.

"Not if you're going to make me dance like a flamingo," she stated airily.

"I think you mean Flamenco. And no, I just meant, you know…dance with me."

He shrugged carelessly, but she saw the expression on his face: hope.

"No, I meant flamingo. I've seen enough cartoons buddy, I remember Fantasia," Mary attempted with a mock skeptic tone. He held his hand out then, and met her eyes steadily. He wasn't backing down, and she wasn't one to avoid a challenge either. She placed the picture facedown on the table to her right; he didn't even notice. "Okay," she acquiesced and grasped his hand. He twirled her gently, surprising her at first. She couldn't remember the last time she'd danced…with anyone…for any reason.

"Those were ostriches," he said suddenly. She pulled away slightly, tilting her head to the side questioningly. "In Fantasia, the hippos were dancing with ostriches, not flamingos."

"Huh. Are you sure? What the hell movie had flamingos in it?" she asked aloud. "It was one of those cartoon movies…" she trailed, running through the possibilities. He smirked. He already knew which movie she was referring to. He didn't say a word, waiting it out. "Okay brainiac, what movie?" Mary resigned.

"Alice in Wonderland. And they weren't dancing, so much as running from the Queen of Hearts in the vain effort that she wouldn't use them as croquet mallets," he replied, amused.

"Dancing, running, same difference. Besides, I don't know if I'd be acting all…smart ass-like just because I corrected my friend on a Disney movie," she grumbled.

His hand, resting on the small of her back, began absently tracing delicate circles as they moved slowly to the music in his living room. He would never admit how cute she looked, swallowed in his old college tee shirt and shorts. She'd probably kick him for even thinking it. "Marshall…" she started.

"Yea?"

"Why have you never invited me over? I mean, I know that sounds a little…imposing…but, you've always been welcome at my place," she asked, feeling embarrassed and selfish to even have brought up what she was beginning to think was a touchy subject. The music had died away, and they weren't so much dancing now as they were simply standing, staring at each other, her hand in his. He opened his mouth, but didn't reply immediately.

"I didn't think you wanted…another place of ambiguity…I guess."

She looked more confused than ever. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means…I have asked before, numerous times. You never heard, or never answered, so after awhile I stopped asking," he replied, but his face was concealing a kind of hurt she'd never seen.

"You never struck me as the kind of guy that would give up that easily," she said, honest as she could be. She sighed. "Define ambiguity."

"To be vague, indistinct, uncertain…" he ticked off in his mind, sounding like…well…a dictionary.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Define ambiguity in your own terms Marshall. Or I will punch you."

"Right, and then I'll chase you around the playground and put gum in your hair. Why do you care Mary?" he said, a bitter edge laced in his words.

She narrowed her eyes, taken aback by the abrupt coolness in his tone. They were no longer dancing. No longer swaying. Just standing. Waiting to see which would cave first. And for once she didn't have an equally stinging response.

"I didn't want to bring you into another world you didn't understand. I didn't want to scare you away. You may be scary at times, but you are more easily scared than you think. And so am I. People do stupid things when they're scared, we know that…" he stared past her shoulder, contemplating how to phrase his definition.

"I was afraid that you wouldn't like what you saw."

There was one thing Mary knew in that moment.

They were not talking about his house anymore, but something he'd been holding onto for a very long time.

((I'm taking liberties with Marshall's "house," by the way. I noticed, we really haven't seen where he lives, which I think is kind of interesting…next chapter when it comes to me!!))