A/N: My quotes this time seem to be running more toward classic rock. Oh, the places the muses take me.... Thanks to everyone who's reading this little endeavor! Your feedback is keeping me giddy. I'm so grateful for all the kind reviews. I hope you'll be patient with me and keep them coming. On with the show.

I saw her today at the reception
In her glass was a bleeding man
She was practiced at the art of deception
Well I could tell by her blood-stained hands

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You just might find
You get what you need

~ "You Can't Always Get What You Want" Rolling Stones

Mary woke up the next morning curled snugly into her customary ball on her side of the bed. She became aware of three things at once. First, she was starving. In the frantic events of the previous evening, getting food had gone by the wayside. Second, her shoulder was killing her. It was stiff and sore, and when she shifted slightly, it sent stabbing little pains up her back that woke her up enough to notice the third and most crucial issue. Her hand quested idly over to the other side of the bed seeking....and not finding.... She was alone. The warm hotel duvet was tucked neatly around her, the curtains were pulled closed, and the room was empty. She rolled over, ignoring the strident cries of her shoulder, eyes searching the shadowy corners of the room. Marshall was gone.

Oh no. Oh shit. Oh, this is really, really bad. Where is he?

She sat up, hands convulsively clutching the bedspread to her. In the dim light of the room and from her current angle, she could not tell whether or not Marshall's gear bag was still at the foot of the bed, and she felt a sudden and horrible thrill of something very like fear course through her. Wild and irrational thoughts spun through her head.

Pushed him too far... we went too far...he's mad, he's gone, he's actually left me... they all leave, they....

Just then, she heard the key card snick in the lock, and then the room door swung open spilling light into the darkness. Marshall stepped in, a paper sack in one hand, newspaper tucked under that same arm, and a cardboard carrier with two coffees in the other. He negotiated the door trying to close it gently with the awkward load in his hands and looked up to see Mary staring at him wide-eyed from the bed. He paused minutely. It was only a fraction of a second, a hesitation so tiny that only someone who knew him as well as Mary would have seen it, but saw it she did, that briefest of moments as he glanced down at the paper bag in his hands and then back up at her again.

"Glad you're finally up," he said, something like his usual smart-aleck grin appearing. "Thought I was going to have to let housekeeping make up the bed around you this morning." He passed her one of the coffees, opened the top of the bag and proffered it so she could take what she wanted the way he always did. His easy manner did not remotely touch his eyes. There was something wild and desperate in them, something like a caged bird fluttering and beating fragile wings against brutal and bruising restraints there.....

She wrapped her hands around the coffee and for a moment, she just stared up at him, ignoring completely the bag of pastries. "Marshall...." she began, but there seemed to be no good way to finish that sentence. Now that he was here, now that she was face-to-face with him again for the first time since they'd stumbled in from the bathroom and collapsed together in a damp heap, a whole new set of problems presented themselves. After last night, what were they now? What did he expect from her? What did she expect from herself? She could feel her engagement ring around her finger suddenly, the metal of it somehow icy, heavy, pressing into the styrofoam of the coffee cup and her hand sharply and uncomfortably. She felt a profound sense of unease sink in to her like a chill at the bone on a hot day.

Those blue eyes missed none of it, and the smile that had been at best a bad replica of his usual teasing one turned a little sad. He shook the pastry bag again. "Here. Get some breakfast. I got your favorite. You know you can't resist your favorite."

She narrowed her eyes, looked away from him into the bakery bag. He had, indeed, managed to procure apple fritters from somewhere, and they even looked and smelled fresh. Her stomach growled, and she really wanted it, but.... She looked up at him again.

She knew she should just let it go. He was giving her an out. He knew she didn't like to talk about feelings, knew that she was the "doing" partner and that he was the "thinking" one. He was offering her not just breakfast but normalcy with that outstretched bag, a chance to sweep last night away and pretend like crazy that they both hadn't crossed a line.

Be fair. It would be more precise to say that he's giving you a chance to pretend that you didn't latch on to him with both clawed hands and drag him over one. You gave him no options. He told you no and you kept going just like you always do because no wasn't the answer you wanted. You need to leave this alone now. If he's willing....

She couldn't leave this, though. That look in his eyes compelled her into danger. If anyone was hurting him, even if it was she herself, she had to try to make it right no matter what the personal cost. Therefore, even though she knew she was not going to like this answer....

"Marshall...is it ...okay?" She wasn't talking about the food. They both knew it.

He looked down at the sack of pastries, sighed, walked over to the table and set his burdens down. He extracted one of the sweet apple fritters and put it on a napkin, brought it back over to the bed, sat down on the far side from her, put it on the bedspread in front of her. She continued to wait for her answer. She could outstubborn stone columns if needed.

He didn't fiddle or fidget as some would have before that gaze. He was used to her, didn't quail before the mighty Mary Shannon. He was simply still a long time before he spoke. "It's fine." His tone was deliberately light. There were only those two words, was no further elaboration from the same man who, unless reined in, would give a twenty-minute oration when asked what time it was.

"You're sure?"

His head was down, and he began to stroke one fingertip idly over the pattern on the duvet, one, twice, and then he forced himself to stillness again. "Yes. You...had... a need. And don't I always get you what you need, Mare?" He shrugged one shoulder, carelessly, still looking down. "You're my best friend. That's how it works, right?" In theory, he could have been talking about the pastries..... He stood suddenly, grabbed his packed bag from where it sat waiting by the door and the newspaper from the tabletop.

"I'm going downstairs to wait for the Texas crew to show up with the vehicle. I talked to one of them about fifteen minutes ago, and they were supposedly in route then. Take your time with breakfast and...whatever." He made a vague gesture toward the bathroom, pinkish color just faintly tinging his high cheekbones. "I'll call if anything noteworthy comes up." He met her eyes for the first time, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. Then the door was softly closing behind him and she was alone again with with nothing but her chaotic and guilt-tinged thoughts, the apple fritter he'd provided, and a hotel room filled with memories she was afraid were going to haunt her indefinitely.

---

They managed to reestablish the rhythm between them that both of them depended on, and most of the time on the job neither of them was plagued with thoughts of that Texas night. In the still moments, though, when their minds were not occupied with life or death matters or with the banter they kept between them, that tiny room crept into their memories.

Mary, lying next to Raph and trying to be gentle about pushing away the hands that had reached for her in sleep for the third time that night to hold, to restrain, would try diligently not to allow her mind to compare the way those same hands had caressed her earlier to the way Marshall had touched her as if she were precious beyond all price.

She was careful not to let Raph know anything had happened. He, of course, noticed her wound, and he quizzed her mercilessly about it. He attributed her more-than-usual irritation at his interrogation over it to her continuing unwillingness to talk to him about her job. Never once did he connect the color in her face to anything other than anger. He did not question the fact that sometimes she came home and made love to him as if she were trying to prove something to both of them, either.

Marshall, sitting at his desk during the day, would watch her pull her hair up and back as she got ready to head to the gym for a late-evening workout, and the memory of that other night and what the baring of her neck had begun would make his hand tighten on the edge of his desk, tighten around the handle of his coffee mug., and he'd look away, afraid his eyes would betray him.

Still, in all, they were recovering. They were stealing fries from each other's plates, hurling spit balls across the office, going out after work for one last beer before going home, baiting each other with ridiculous and pointless little jokes to ease the stress, working together to plague Stan and Eleanor or get revenge against the same duo, kicking in doors in tandem, and calling each other "Idiot" and "My Girl" again. They were fine, really. At least that's what they both chose to believe, chose to repeat to their own reflections fervently when the temptation to look at the other as something more than just "best friend" or "partner" revived itself.

And who knows? As strong-willed as they both were, they might even have been successful with their efforts had what happened next not occurred....

Well, they can't all be monster installments.... More is coming. Promise.