A/N: It's a Margo Channing Chapter, folks ("fasten your seatbelts"). You have been warned. I'm having to try a new form of scene breaks. I hate that I can't use my old ones. Sorry about these. They're intrusive to me. It's a work in progress. Part of "Once a Ponzi Time" will be retooled for my own nefarious purposes, btw.

Don't stop thinking of me,
Don't make me feel this way,
Come on over here and love me,
You know what I want you to say.
Don't be cruel to a heart that's true.
Why should we be apart?
I really love you baby, cross my heart.

"Don't Be Cruel" ~ Elvis Presley

I.

Mary had fled the reception because, once the priest started talking about true commitment and honoring marriage vows, she'd looked down at that ring on her finger, and despite the arched ceilings, suddenly there had been no air in the entire room. That little band of metal on her hand had somehow begun to burn and tingle as she'd looked at it there currently nestled as it was on her finger linked with Marshall's. Her fiancé's gaudy diamond ring on the hand being lovingly and gently caressed and held by her partner and best friend who was now also her new lover..... Nausea had risen along with a splitting headache, and she fought the urge to rip her hand out of Marshall's in a panic that would surely attract attention.

Oh God, oh God, what have I done? What do I do now? I've made promises, serious, lifechanging-type promises, for-better-or-for-worse promises, I've given my word...and...and....last night, I...this morning, I.... I stepped out on them. I'm not a cheater. I don't goddamn cheat, but last night, I.... I've become what I hated him for being. How did this happen? How did I go so far? How could we have.....

As she always did when things went sideways, out of reflex she looked at Marshall, her partner, the one who always grounded her, who always helped her out of pits and snares, but there was no comfort in looking at him now. Now that familiar face was no island of refuge; instead, fresh waves of mixed guilt and something else she did not understand swept together over the gunwales of her already-sinking craft. Another voice spoke in the back of her head, cold, honest, brutal, unrelenting in its tactical analysis of the situation.

You know how. You said it yourself, you always get what you want, and you've wanted his hands on you, wanted to touch him again since Texas....

Through her traitorous mind ghosted the sensation of the warm spray of a shower and the intoxicating taste of him, the sight of a sky full of falling stars and the contrast of cool night air and hot kisses on her exposed skin, and that sound Marshall had made when he entered her the very first time. She wanted to throw her hands up over her ears, as though that warding gesture would stop the flood of memories. She felt as though the ring on her hand had turned into a white-hot beacon flashing out her infidelity for all the world to see.

But I'm supposed to be marrying Raph for God's sake! Her eyes riveted on the glowing young bride in her virginal dress. That? That's supposed to be me up there in front of that altar someday soon. She ignored the sick flip her stomach gave, the panicked surge of adrenaline, attributed it to the situation at hand, her disgust with herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she again skimmed the profile of her partner, took in his high cheekbones, the blue, blue eyes, and as if he were aware of it, he turned his head slightly, locked his gaze with hers questioningly. She turned her head, stared back, hungry, for just a second more for....for what? What the hell is it you think you're going to see there? Absolution? Answers? No. You made this fucking mess yourself, Mary Shannon. And now you're going to have to figure a way out to clean it up that won't leave three bodies piled up on the floor.....

When the bride and groom flashed past her toward the reception, she was aware of Marshall's scrutiny, but she couldn't pretend that she wasn't shaken. She held together the best she could, and as soon as she was able, she ran back to the hotel room and sat for a long time simply staring down at her hand and the tiny piece of metal that was coming more and more to feel like some sort of shackle than any sort of promise of future joy.

II.

And so he found her there waiting, still contemplating that constricting symbol on her hand. And so he came into the room to sit next to her, folded himself beside her on the bed, and for long minutes despite the agitation in them both, neither one spoke after those initial words.

He finally took her hand in his again, folded it between his to stop the compulsive motion, unable to stand watching her twist the ring over and over again, back and forth. She jumped just a little, startled by the touch, and he felt the sorrow inside him grow at her reaction. She did not, however, pull away from him, and so he counted what meager blessings he was given.

"Mare," he said, soft, coaxing, the voice he'd use with a horse that was spooked, with a child that had been frightened. "Whatever it is, you know.... it's... okay, right? Just tell me what's wrong." Because I already know, don't I? Because I'll tell you whatever you need to hear so I don't...lose you....

She could not look at him. She could not bring herself to look into his eyes when she said it. For long moments, she simply continued to stare at her hand in his, frustrated by the comfort she felt, by the rightness of it, craving the peace just that gave her, wanting somehow to just lock the door and crawl into his arms and forget the world outside this place was real. Damn. Damn this. Damn him. Damn me. Oh most definitely, damn me.... Finally she dredged up words from somewhere, felt them like broken glass cutting her open even before she forced them out.

"Marshall, last night ..."

His hand tightened on hers. "You don't have to say anything. It's okay, Mare. I understand. Look, I wasn't at my best, clearly, and I should have gotten up and...."

She finally raised her head looked at him, pinned him with her gaze, and the anger and incredulity in it startled him momentarily. "You think you're going to take the blame for this? You're really going to sit there and try to take this on yourself? Jesus, Marshall, not even you are going to be able to whitewash this one for me. Come on." She jerked her hand from his, pushed off the bed to stand near the window, stare out unseeing.

He let her go. "Mare," he said gently, "we were both there last night as I recall. If there is blame, and I'm not so sure there is, then I think I do have to have some share in it....."

She laughed again, that same bitter, broken, horrible bark of humorless noise he'd heard when he entered. "What commitments did you break, then, Marshall? Who did you betray last night?"

He fell silent, mind racing. Of course, of course this is the way it turned... Guilt is practically second nature to her, although she doesn't usually let other people see it. It's why she keeps Brandi and Jinx in the house. It's why she agreed to marry that useless lump in the first place. She usually channels it into anger, but honor and duty are the cornerstones of who she is, and she now thinks she's violated a promise. Oh God....

Marshall stood, crossed the tiny space to take her shoulders in his hands, turn her to him. She resisted. "Mare, Mare, listen." She had to listen. Had to. He felt his pulse pick up. There was no telling what she might decide to do, no telling the lengths to which she might go in her quest to right what she perceived to be her "wrong" if he didn't find a way to turn this, control this right now.... "You stumbled. That's all."

And how just the saying of those words ate at his soul. There had been no stumbling. There had been no fall. He knew it. For the first time, there had been only grace and flight, only mercy and wonder.... Saying this was like denying a miracle one had seen with one's own eyes. She was still pulling away, pushing him back.

"Stumbled, Marshall? You make it sound like I broke a cheap glass in the kitchen sink or lost an old set of keys. I slept with somebody else with an engagement ring on my hand. What does that even make me? You know what that makes me...." She looked up at him, eyes angry, hurt, desperate. Her hands came up to grab at his jacket lapels, clutch there for support.

He couldn't help it. He couldn't stop himself from gently smoothing one hand over her hair, pulling her forward gently against him. He couldn't stop his heart from crying out in both pain and happiness when she quit resisting him and allowed him to hold her there ever so loosely, ever so softly. A million answers crowded into his mind, but he stopped himself from saying anything but, "Human, Mare. Just human." This is not the time to ask her to examine that. She'll break. She'll shatter. She's not ready. And he put his bleeding heart carefully away once again to try to be what she needed.

She leaned against him, against that unfailing strength and acceptance, against that calm understanding of her when she didn't even understand herself, hating herself for doing it. Weak. Even now you still.... She pushed away suddenly, dashed her hand at her eyes as she turned. "I can't tell him."

Marshall stood still, bereft, knowing that was the last of the closeness she would allow him, mourning its loss. "No." Because even though he was once "human," too, probably more than once, if the truth were ever really told, he would never, ever allow you to have any peace; he'd beat you to death with it slowly, twist the knife.... Something dark stirred in his soul, a ribbon of something dangerous spiraling through him. He took a deep breath.

She looked at him again. "Marshall, about ...us...." The tone was different now. He heard in her voice unspoken questions, fears, things she could not say. There was something very like an apology in her eyes, hesitation, dread....

He forced a tiny smile, shook his head. "We had a wild night and we strayed off the path a little. No worries, Mare. Human, remember? It's okay. I'm okay. We're always okay, right?" He saw the relief bloom in her eyes, and something clenched around his heart hard, painfully tight. And so help me, we will be, even if it requires daily bloodletting on my part.... "Come on. We have to get Maribel and Ruben back to ABQ."

III.

Once again they managed to find their way back from the brink of doom. Things weren't the same, but they were largely good. They still laughed and joked, played and fought, drove everyone around them mad and had each other's backs, but they were both extremely cautious not to be alone together more than was necessary. There were no more nights with her crashing at his house to escape the circus of stupidity that was her family. If they had to be on the road, one of both of them checked and rechecked the hotel reservations to ensure that they actually had two rooms. Eleanor noted their care and filed the little details away for her own private scrutiny along with the way that each would, when no one was watching, sometimes stare at the other for long, serious moments, but she said nothing to anyone, keeper of secrets that she was.

Mary jumped into her relationship with Raph with a determination that made him both happy and a little dizzy and made Marshall not a little sick. She went home at the end of each day trying to force herself into a mold that was the wrong shape for her, and as a result, in a very short time, her temper was frayed and she was snappish with everyone. She began to spend more and more time at work, and predictably, Raph began to grow irritated with her pattern of late nights and absences.

Then came the fight.

"You realize I have no idea what you do everyday, right? What kind of marriage is this we're going to have where the husband doesn't even know what his wife does every day, Mary? This isn't trust!"

"Raph, how many ways do I have to tell you that I can't talk about my job? Why can't you just respect that? What kind of marriage is it going to be when you can't respect something this important to me? How about that? Huh? How about that?"

"Look. A marriage is not supposed to be about a 'you' or a 'me.' It's supposed to be about an 'us.'"

Mary had a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach as a horror movie image of a being made of some hellish mutant splice of Raph and herself flashed across her inner eye, and she suddenly felt that claustrophobic, airless sensation of suffocation in an open room. She heard the sound of the GMC pulling up outside, and she thanked whatever divinity there was for a rescue.

"I cannot tell you more about my job than I already have. You're going to have accept this, Raph." She gathered her gun, her badge, her jacket, was walking to the door, when he took aim and fired the fatal shot.

"Oh, so now you're running off with Marshall again instead of finishing this argument? Just like always. He knows everything, and I get the leftovers. Fine. Go."

She didn't pause on her way out the door, left no trail of blood behind her, but the whole day, the wound continued to flow.

That night, she told him.

IV.

Bad, bad things happened in diners. Marshall had, in fact, come to believe that he hated them. Maybe it was because they spent so much time in them. Maybe it was just the law of probability sneaking up on him, savaging him. Maybe if they spent lots of quality time talking, say, in petting zoos, skating rinks, or lingerie stores, then he'd get these little dollops of unmitigated hell in those places, begin to get the internal shakes every time she dragged him into one of them for a slice of pie or a quick burger in the middle of the day.

The first mention of Raphael Ramirez as a recreational sex toy had been made here at this very counter, but of course he hadn't really been worried back then. How many male details had he had to listen to over a quick lunch? They'd become a part of the background noise, and nothing of any importance. Then he'd discovered that damn engagement ring tan line sitting in a table right over there, hadn't he? Rocked his entire universe right down to the very foundations. He'd had to slap on a mask made out of whatever shreds and patches he could scrape together, knew it wasn't up to his usual standards.

But today, today, absolutely took the clichéd cake. She had told Raphael. She had given that whining, puling deadweight their secret, his secret, the secret. Marshall wasn't sure exactly what emotion was strongest: shocked disbelief that it had come to this, an icy rage that she had not told him this was coming, that she'd casually given away something he treasured and protected so carefully, the secrecy that was literally life-or-death not only for him but also for every witness he protected, or total betrayal that she had picked Raph over the job and over them, over everything indefinable and essential thing they were to each other.

He couldn't dredge up any mask for this. He couldn't dredge up any kindness, any acceptance. This was too much. He knew she was waiting for him to say that she should do whatever she wanted, that anything she needed to do was okay, just like he always did, but this was NOT okay. This, this, was a knife in his unprotected back from the hand of the one he trusted more than any other.

When she got up, angry, incredulous that he wasn't going to play nice and pretend it was all fine, wasn't going to roll over like a good little puppy just kicked for a rub on the belly, he didn't follow. He couldn't. He was torn between the need to grab her, shake her hard, howl to the skies at depths of the hurt inside him and the need to get in the truck and drive to the car lot where Raph was working, take his well-trained hands and restore his privacy, end a portion of this ongoing pain, in a very definitive manner.

The darkness inside him grew.

Review, por favor.... More to come. And it may not be pretty....