A/N: And so now we find ourselves rejoining Marshall in that bar, coming full-circle. Still got your seatbelt on? Good.... Oh, you might also want to get a good hold on that door-handle thingy, too.

I hear you calling and it's needles and pins (And pins)
I want to hurt you just to hear you screaming my name
Don't want to touch you but you're under my skin (Deep in)
I want to kiss you but your lips are venomous poison
You're poison runnin' thru my veins
You're poison, I don't want to break these chains
Poison

"Poison" ~ Alice Cooper

I.

Marshall managed to get out the front door of the bar before she caught up with him, put her hand on his arm to turn him. His response was not what she'd expected, not drunk, not staggering, not uncoordinated, not Marshall at all. He grabbed her hand, slid his grip up to her wrist in a hold that she'd seen him use a hundred times on criminals and on witnesses gone wrong, and he twisted it almost casually. She felt a little stab of discomfort as he stopped just short of something that would do her any sort of real harm. His eyes were hard, cold as the icy air that swirled around them, and something just barely under control shone in them causing a shiver to slide through her.

"You don't want to do that right now, Mare. Don't touch me." He held her for another moment, stared at her as if he were searching for something, and then dropped her hand with a sound of disgust, muttered, "Sorry," and ran his hand through his hair. He headed down the sidewalk toward the corner. There was only a slight unsteadiness to his gait.

Shock kept her rooted to the spot as he went. Shock that he'd ever touch her in any way that wasn't soft, gentle. Shock that Marshall, the eternally sweet, thoughtful, and comical partner who rode beside her every day and made her laugh had just put her in a wrist lock. This was Marshall of the lava lamp, Marshall of the PEZ dispensers, Marshall of the origami cranes. This was Marshall of the endless trivia and old movie marathons. It wasn't that she didn't know he had it in him to be dangerous. God knows she'd seen that in him, valued that side of him when she went through doors and into firefights, but she'd never once had a shred of that darkness she knew he kept so carefully kenneled inside him unleashed on her.

She'd come looking for him because she'd waited at the office to talk to him that afternoon and he had never shown up. After she'd told him she'd revealed her WITSEC job to Raph and Marshall had been so angry with her, she'd stormed out of the diner in a fury of her own. She'd gone about the rest of her day defiantly, resolving that he could damn well get over his problems on his own. Guilt had been fueling part of her wrath, guilt caused by the pain she'd seen in those blue eyes that always held only.... She'd shut down that part of her mind and gone about her day, but before she'd even gotten two blocks away from the diner, she was already missing his presence in the seat beside her, already missing his banter and his silences, already planning to catch up with him and try to explain the reasons for her actions later in the day. He'll understand. He always understands. He knows me better than I know myself. Marshall will get it. He has to....

But Marshall didn't come back to the office. He didn't answer his phone. He didn't return her voicemails. None of his witnesses had seen him. Stan and Eleanor hadn't heard from him. Eleanor was giving her pitying looks from across the office as she dialed him for the fifteenth time, and Mary finally just couldn't stand it any more. She'd jumped up, grabbed her keys, and headed out to see if he was at his house. That was when she'd seen his truck parked outside the bar they sometimes finished up long and bad days at....

Now, a trickle of real fear at the changes in him, at his condition slid through her as she saw him round the corner to the main street, and she responded in the only way she ever did to anything that made her afraid: anger. If she had to fear it, well, then she'd kick its ass and then that feeling would be mutual, wouldn't it? Turn-about was always fair fucking play. Her furious strides ate up the sidewalk, but as she turned the corner, she came to a halt as she saw him folding himself into a cab. He didn't even turn his head to look at her as it pulled past, and Mary saw that his eyes were shut as if he were in pain.

Oh, hells no. You're not getting off that easy, you wrist-grabbing idiot. She spun on her heel and was in the Probe in moments.

II.

It has been said that discretion is the better part of valor. Equally true is the old saw about fools rushing in where angels fear to tread. Everyone who knows her knows which one is true of Mary Shannon. Marshall had spent the short cab ride home full of a serious self-loathing and the swirl of dark emotions he'd been fighting all day. He was cursing both the keys stubbornly refusing to come out of his pockets and himself for a fool a million times over for what he'd done, his mood black and empty of light as the cloudy sky above him when she pulled to the curb with a slight squeal of brakes applied too hard too suddenly.

He stopped in his futile quest to get in his own house, dully took in the sight of her getting out of the car, slamming the door, the furious glory of her coming up the little walkway. Of course. She couldn't just let it go. Goddamn it. Why couldn't she just let it go? I can't do this tonight...We can't do this. She has to go.... He turned away and forced his focus onto the keys, forced his fine motor skills to work the mechanism and knob.

She was right behind him, crowding him when he was so unsafe, when he needed space, needed distance. "Marshall! What the hell? Look, I want to talk to you...."

He could smell that scent of her again, that tang of her on the night air. It invoked images best left unearthed tonight, images of her beneath him under a star-shot sky... The slap to his libido was followed immediately by the reminder of her betrayal, the reminder of what she'd done, of how she'd given them to Raphael, exposed his secret heart to the man Marshall could not bring himself to regard as something serious in her life no matter how hard he tried and no matter what manner of jewelery was on her hand, and he turned to lean against the door frame, smiled at her sarcastically.

Okay. Fine. You want to keep pushing me? Fine. By God, I think I've had enough by anybody's measures, and I'm officially climbing down off this particular pyre of martyrdom for tonight......

"Well, now. Wouldn't life just be an absolute peach if we all got every single little thing we wanted? What? Those wishes not working out for you, Mare? Need some more?" He pushed off the door frame, leaned toward her a little menacingly, more than a little suggestively, raked his hot eyes down her body. "'S that why you're here, Mare? Are you sure it's really talk you...wanted?" He reached out a hand toward her face.

She looked up at him, felt her fury rising, moved to slap down the hand before it could touch her. "Don't you touch me when you're drunk. Don't you dare talk to me like that and think you're going to touch me when you're drunk...." She fought for a calming breath, tried very hard to settle. "Marshall, Jesus, this isn't you."

He laughed, looked at her a moment, and then his expression became infinitely sad, the anger dropping away suddenly, the feeling going like an elevator plunging down a shaft into a black abyss. He just felt empty and tired now. "How the hell would you know, Mare? How the hell would you know?" And he turned away from her to open the door. He would have slammed it shut, but she was expecting the move, blocked it to force her way in.

You bastard. If I have a bruise from that, I'm taking out of your ass in the morning....

He was standing inside in the darkness of the living room, just staring off into the distance. He had stripped off his coat as he came in, throwing it toward a chair, stilled with his hands on the back of the couch. He seemed lost in his own space, unmoored and drifting. She closed and locked the door by force of habit, walked over to where he was without pausing to switch on a light, hesitated remembering his reaction on the sidewalk, and then cast caution to the winds and gently laid her hand on his sleeve. His eyes fell to the touch as if he'd forgotten she was there.

"Mare, you need to go." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "I'm not...you cannot be here right now. I need you to leave. Please. Just go."

"Not until I talk to you for a minute. I need to tell you that...that...I'm sorry I hurt you, Marshall. All day long, I thought about what you said today at the diner, about this being your secret as well as mine, and I know you're right."

Pain like a blade cut through him, and the darkness which had been momentarily quiescent expanded, exploded like a black sun gone supernova, howled. He turned on her, advanced, and something in his expression made her back up, she who never gave way, as he paced her toward the wall.

"Then how could you do it? How could you give him...us?"

"I don't know. I guess at the time I just wasn't thinking about it. I was just trying to make everything right...Marshall, look, let's sit down and talk. I want to try to explain... I'll go make some coffee...."

"Wasn't thinking...." He laughed softly, bitterly, still stalking forward.

Her back hit the bookshelf, and she heard the soft clink of untold little artifacts of his life as they settled from the vibration. He kept coming. Her pulse picked up, and she fought to stay calm. It's Marshall, it's Marshall, and I am NOT afraid of him, but what is that in his eyes? She swallowed hard.

"Marshall, you need to quit this right now. You're drunk and you're not in control of yourself." She made her tone her U.S. Marshal tone, calm and commanding. He was right in front of her, too close now, staring down into her face, staring as if he were searching for something critical, something life-or-death.

"You're right. I am out-of-control." He took one hand and placed it on the shelf beside her head. "Controlled, tame Marshall would never tell you no, would he?" He brought his other hand up, pinned her in. "Your pitiful pet Marshall would never dare to defy you, stay angry, not take your calls, God forbid go out and get drunk on you, would he?" He stepped forward, and only a breath separated them. He dropped one hand from the shelf to her hip, hooked the belt loop of her jeans with his index finger and thumb and roughly tugged her against him. Her hands instinctively came up against his chest in a gesture of warding, pushing him away, but he would not be moved. She felt the wash of his breath on her neck. "Sweet little lamb Marshall always comes so nicely to heel when you snap your fingers, click your... tongue." She felt his mouth open on her neck, felt his tongue lap at her on one of the most sensitive spots there, felt his teeth nip. Oh my God.... A shiver of pure pleasure chased down her spine. Two long months had passed since she'd last felt that sensation.

No. We shouldn't. Can't. I... His mouth was working down toward the joining of neck and shoulder. Why can't we again? Shit...shit...there is a reason...what was the reason? Right...drunk...he's drunk... and being an ass...out of control.... She broke through the haze of growing arousal to make an effort. She shoved at him, but it was like trying to move a stone statue. He captured her hands, held them over her head with one of his large ones wrapped tightly around her wrists, smiled a dangerous smile as he looked down at her.

"But tonight, tonight, I'm not that Marshall. Your little lamb is gone, Mary. Nursery rhyme is over. Something else's here instead." He brought his other hand down to her waist, slid down to cup her, lift her, drag her up against him. She could feel an impossible erection pressed against her. How in the hell, with all that he's had to drink... His mouth was again burning up her neck, stopped to whisper harshly in her ear, "Warned you fair and square. Told you twice to get away from me, to leave me the hell alone." He angled his head, sucked her bottom lip, forced his knee between her thighs, forced her to shift to accommodate the invasion. "But you stayed, didn't you Mary Shannon? Even though you knew this was coming. Didn't you?"

He lips slid over hers, no teasing delicacy, no hesitation, direct, hot, needy as he took her mouth with his own, plunged his tongue in to stroke against her own again, again, again. She could taste the tang of the scotch, the bitterness of the anger, and overwhelming it all so strongly that it was making her drunk on it, the hot wine of his desire..... Jesus...want.... His free hand streaked up her back, wrapped itself in her hair, pulled her head back so she was forced to meet his eyes. "Didn't you?"

The question was loaded. She knew it. She knew that her answer would be the tipping of some scale, the crossing of some line. She knew she should try to get free, trip him, use her training on him to escape, tell him no at the very least, and running like the hounds of hell were behind her didn't seem like too much of a stretch as she felt his hips hitch against hers impatiently. But all she could think about was the taste of him, the feel of him, the wanting of him....

His eyes were boring into hers, compelling her, demanding an answer. Despite her best intentions to the contrary, she heard it spill breathlessly over her lips, "Yes...." And then he smiled. It was not a gentle smile, not the smile of her partner or her friend. It was a smile of triumph, the smile of a hunter who has caught its prey. He released her hands, slipped his own into her hair, angled her face and for a moment just studied her as he leaned in. Then he kissed her hard, fast, with enough passion and promise in it to leave her weak when he pulled away moments later and whispered in her ear, "Then, Mare, that makes you mine tonight."

Aanndddd review, please.