All right, all right, an update, y'all happy now? (I am, anyway... or at least relieved to get on with the next part of the story!)
Disclaimer, rants, and everything else: Still not mine. Sad. Spoilers for, um... there's an outside chance I made sidelong reference to some season three episodes, but if so, it's going to be dialog that echoes the sentiment of some quotes from the episodes, which probably aren't spoilers at all, but fair warning just the same. We're free of most abuse-related angst this chapter; this is mostly transitional, and I wanted to torment Marshall just a teeny bit more. Special thanks to BuJyo for helping me clarify my perspective on Mary's personality, and encouraging me to find the nerve to write Sarcastic Mary, which is a part of her that I love, but find tough to write.
We last left our increasingly less sane duo at Marshall's, after Mary spent a few days ignoring a strep infection, and ended up in the ER unconscious, marginally overdosed on OTC painkillers, dehydrated, and in enough pain to warrant giving her the good stuff. Stan somehow guessed the pair are romantically involved, and let his fatherly side show more than he usually does. And Mary, in a fit of honesty borne of exhaustion and vulnerability (and the painkiller, I'm sure) admitted that she needed to tell Marshall more details about her past, tomorrow night (well, tonight now, at this point in the story).
Marshall could have done without the sunrise, he thought, as he puttered around the kitchen, cleaning imaginary dirt off whatever surfaces caught his attention. This day could have come twenty years from now, really... or a hundred, even, for all he cared. Oh, he would go through it, of course. He'd long ago committed to doing whatever needed to be done, for his job, and over time that professional sense of duty had grown to include his coworkers, and it was from that firm commitment that respect, friendship, affection, and yes, even love, had grown. But were he to be perfectly candid, as was his custom in the privacy of his own thoughts, he didn't want anything to do with this day. He hoped and prayed Mary would sleep through most of the day, just because he knew she would be the odd mix of surly and sullen that defines a frightened Mary. He'd even halfway thought of convincing her to take an extra painkiller, just to knock her out, but it would be far easier to just hit her upside the head, than to get her to take a pill, even if the instructions did say "one to two as needed". Her definition of "as needed" was more along the lines of "if you're pretty sure you'll die otherwise".
Which was why eight o'clock had found him not in the shower, or getting dressed, but in the kitchen, as far from the bedroom as he could get, with the radio tuned between stations to mask any sounds he might make during his odd, nervous-energy version of spring cleaning, or as he called Shelley to set up their evening appointment. And it would have worked, too, if she hadn't needed to take her antibiotic at ten. Marshall let his partner alone until eleven, letting the twelve-hour dosing slide just a little bit since he knew that most modern drugs are meant to be taken by real people, not obsessive-compulsive clock-watchers like himself. But, alas, the time came when he couldn't fudge it any longer. Mary had to be woken up. Marshall wanted to be excited at the prospect of rousing her sleeping body, but he knew she probably wasn't going to wake up relaxed, or cuddly, or anything like what he wanted for her. No, alertness would come swiftly, as she sorted out why she wasn't rushing off to work, and then fear and anxiety would set in, which she would express by trying to pick fights.
Marshall's job today, he knew, was to breathe deeply, and patiently wait the day out. She would allow him to comfort her in the evening; all he had to do was last the seven or so hours until Shelley's arrival. The woman had thankfully realized how important this was, as soon as Marshall had explained to her why her patient had vanished for a few days. But that didn't change the fact that her schedule was full for the day. Which was why Marshall had thanked her so profusely for being willing to come in the evening. Of course, he knew she would, if that's what Mary needed in these early weeks. She'd said as much to Mary, before, but it didn't change that he knew he was asking her to give up tonight's downtime at her own home, for Mary's sake. Marshall drew one more cleansing, deep breath before quietly opening the bedroom door and slinking into the room.
He closed the door as quietly as possible, not sure why he was closing it at all since it was just the two of them in the house... just to maintain a secure, cave-like feel, he supposed. He jumped just slightly when he turned around to face the bed, and instead of a sleeping woman, he met with fiery eyes, already a blend of rage and terror. Steeling his nerves for whatever Mary was about to dish, he approached the bed.
"How are you feeling?" Mary's eyes narrowed as she wordlessly pointed at her throat. Marshall allowed his blank look to melt into an expression of concern, and he stepped closer, intent on giving her the pills before he doubled back to the kitchen to fix a piece of toast, or whatever else she was willing to eat. But as he opened the bottle, Mary knocked it from his hand, sending seventeen antibiotic caplets skittering across the carpeted floor. Marshall frowned in more confusion than anger as he began to pick them up and put them back into the bottle. "Now, was that because your throat hurts too much to take pills," he asked, "or just because you're mad?" He glanced back to see her nodding. Both. Great. He knew she was miserable, but he found his own anger rising anyway. Marshall stayed on the floor, peering under his dresser far longer than he needed to, while he gathered his strength. Mary had been through far more than what she was subjecting him to, he kept reminding himself. He reminded his heart who was in charge here, reminded it that his brain had already chosen to live through whatever effects of the living hell his precious Mary had been forced to endure. When the anger had receded, he capped the bottle and stood up, making his way to his side of the bed. He rested his back against the headboard and pulled Mary into his arms before bothering to reason with her.
"You can take the painkiller first, or try just some water or juice, or even a bit of toast," he said. "It's your decision how you want to play this. But you've got to take the antibiotic." Mary's response was to growl in anger, smacking Marshall as she tried to punch the pillow next to him, flailing about as she allowed emotion to rule her for just a moment before feeling gave way to thinking, and her full weight fell against him as she nodded her agreement. She needed, and ultimately wanted, to take the antibiotic, she knew, and the painkiller would not only ease her suffering but take the edge off her nervous anger, too.
"Okay..." Marshall began. "Do you know what you want to try, can you point?" Mary did one better than that, reaching for her water glass. He felt her body tense as she sipped, feeling the pain course through his own body as he held her, trying to will the pain away. After a moment, though, she seemed to have a handle on the pain, as she passed the glass to him and leaned over to grab the bottle of painkillers. She took one out and stared at it for a while, before breaking it neatly on the score mark. Marshall cringed just slightly. Seriously? Half of a pill? But he didn't say anything. If she got half down, it'd at least take the edge off, so she'd be operating less on adrenaline, and he could try to reason with her. Right now, she was just operating on sheer avoidance of pain. Marshall's arms snaked more fully around Mary as she contemplated the half-pill in her hand for just a moment before washing it down.
When she did, Marshall discovered why she'd broken it in half. Immediately, her body tensed as it subjected her to a gagging cough – punishment for swallowing anything more substantial than water. She probably couldn't have gotten the whole thing down, Marshall realized. Mary lay against his chest for a while, and Marshall just let her do it. She needed to take the antibiotic and eat a little something, but for just a few minutes, she was at relative peace. If she was able to let herself receive comfort for just a little bit before her fears returned, and inevitably turned to anger, he would welcome it. Twenty or so minutes later, Marshall felt the drug hit her nervous system like a freight train, her muscles relaxing almost fully, over the course of just a minute. Tilting his head a little, he confirmed that she was still, in fact, awake... sort of.
"Are you ready to take anything else yet?" he asked softly, knowing that the heavy painkiller would make Mary more sensitive to sensory input. She nodded in response and handed the bottles over.
"I don't think I can open them," she whispered, coming as close as she probably ever would, to asking for help. Marshall took the bottles, opened them both, and gave her the pill and a half that he hoped she'd accept. It was such a little thing, but he felt like jumping for joy when she took both into her fingers. She stared at them for a while, turning them over and over in her fingers, before attempting to swallow one. Her body tried to rebel as she took each one, forcing her to rest in between, but Marshall sat quietly, stroking her hair and waiting patiently for her to do this at her own pace. He remembered, suddenly, being a young child, trying to psych himself up to take a particularly vile liquid medication. If he'd been left to his own devices, he would have spent ten or fifteen minutes on the internal debate, before eventually gulping it down, but his parents had never been exactly known for patience, and tended to give him one chance before throwing him on the floor and forcing it down, without really caring if it ended up in his stomach or lungs. Marshall had always sworn he would never rush a person about things like this, ever. Kids aren't stupid, after all... they just need to approach unpleasant things on their own terms sometimes. Waiting for Mary to get on with it had tried his patience, probably much like the irritation his own parents had felt with him. He'd wanted her to hurry up and not torture herself for so long. But she, too, needed to approach this independently, on her own terms.
After laying quietly for a little bit, Mary began to pull herself up away from Marshall. He wasn't big on having to let her go, but he valued life and limb, so he immediately turned loose. There was going to be a next time, after all, for the rest of his life. No sense smothering the poor thing from the start.
"Do you want to go sit in front of the TV, and I'll fix breakfast?" he asked, getting a shake of the head in response. He thought she might have answered verbally, but he wasn't entirely sure until he watched her pause to pull some of his pajamas out of the dresser, then stumble into the bathroom. The shower started almost as fast as the door closed. He should have realized she was going to want a shower, he figured, since she probably hadn't felt up to it for a couple days. Marshall thought to make breakfast and have it waiting when she was ready, but he thought better of it when he remembered how strong a painkiller she was on. If he weren't trying so hard to give her space and let her be independent, he would have gone to sit with her, just to keep a closer watch. Instead, he took a book off the nightstand and leaned uneasily against the headboard, half reading, half listening for any sign of distress from the next room.
Marshall's ears perked up when he began to hear a new sound coming from the bathroom. It didn't sound like distress, so he listened intently. Huh. Who would've thought... big, bad Mary Shannon sang in the shower... softly, but it was definitely singing, some light and airy song that he was sure he'd heard somewhere before, but he wasn't sure quite where. It reminded him of the kind of song he'd hear in his grandparents' church when he was young, but... Mary? Religious songs? Highly unlikely. Marshall smiled and made a mental note to ask her later, what it was. The smile quickly came off his face when he heard a crash, then another, followed by a moan. All thoughts of reading gone, he threw his book aside and scrambled to the door.
"Mary! Are you all right?" he asked, lurching to a stop at the door, his hand on the knob just in case. Another moan. He opened the door just a crack, to hear better. He wanted to charge in, but waited just a moment longer, and was rewarded for his patience.
"Yeah... I just.. I'm okay. I just fell a little bit, and dropped the shampoo."
"Do you need any help?"
"Like I'd let you in here while I'm in the shower," she shot back. Marshall was taken slightly aback at that. On at least two occasions Mary had tried to make him give up his six-month rule, and yet she didn't want him to see her in the shower? Was he supposed to be hurt by that, or what, he wondered. "You'd never be able to keep your six-month rule if you came in here, Marshall." Ah. Well, that did explain it, then. Mary was trying to abide by his wishes... she just couldn't figure out how to do it without a touch of sarcasm. Marshall chuckled.
"I would find the will to restrain myself, if you needed assistance. But if you're sure you're all right..."
"I am." Convinced that she was all right, he let the door slide back closed, and returned to his perch on the bed. Mary, hearing the sound of the door closing, stuck her head out of the shower, looking around in confusion. She was sure she'd heard... did he come in before asking if she was all right? No, Marshall would respect that boundary... wouldn't he? Well, he wasn't in the bathroom now, so apparently he had respected it, at least to a degree. And she'd not seen his shadow against the shower curtain. He'd probably just glanced around to be sure he didn't see blood or anything obvious, she finally decided, as she returned to her cleansing rituals. Showers were like some kind of religious experience, Mary had long ago decided. She'd never been real big into religion, despite having been born and even marginally raised as a Catholic, despite the medal that she wore about the neck, well, religiously. But showers... there was something about the warm water flowing, its power to wash away dirt, grime, blood... stress, fear, anger, pain. It was magical.
That was probably why she always felt compelled to sing the couple of old hymns she remembered from childhood, whenever she stood under the wondrous, almost too hot rain. She knew she would have to emerge from her refuge soon. She was starting to get hungry, the second half of her painkiller was starting to work its sleep-inducing magic, and Marshall's water heater was set not nearly high enough for her liking. She pictured it right at the 120 mark that's decreed safe. Marshall would follow those kinds of recommendations to the letter. Mary's own heater was set a good twenty degrees above that, a departure from her preference for following the letter of the law that she allowed, partly because she didn't have to worry about kids scalding themselves at her house, but mostly because if she was going to pay the bills, and put up with her freeloading relatives, then damn it, she was going to have a hot shower that lasted a full 60 minutes.
She made a mental note to go find his water heater, later, and turn up the thermostat. Mary started putting bottles back, closing the caps, wringing out her washcloth in preparation to get out, and somehow managed to drop one bottle in such a way that everything else tipped all at once. Hmm. Maybe she'd wait till she wasn't on such heavy medications, to tinker with hazardous household appliances, she thought as she began picking things up. As soon as she bent over, she heard it again, that sound of the door, and Marshall's deceptively calm voice asking if she needed help. This time she was going to catch him in the act, she decided, leaving the bottles on the shower floor and sticking her head out around the curtain to find... nothing. The door was open maybe an inch, no more.
"Marshall, are you opening the bathroom door?" she asked, thus verifying that she was all right.
"No... well, sort of..." he answered. "It makes it easier to hear you if I crack the door open, is all." Mary snickered in response.
"I'm fine, just a drug-induced clumsy moment," she said. "Quit letting all my steam out, already." She was rewarded with the sound of the door slipping back closed. Once Mary was sure she was alone in the room, she set to getting herself out of the shower, taking more care this time, as she dried off and stepped into Marshall's pajamas in the small, humid space before hanging her towel neatly and emerging. Marshall glanced up at her from his place on the bed, holding a book as if he'd actually been reading the whole time. Of course she knew he'd been doing nothing but worrying about her, but at least he was trying to play it casual. That was nice of him.
"So what's for breakfast?" Mary asked, trying for at least a little disdain in her tone, but utterly failing since her appetite had finally returned about halfway through her shower. Marshall regarded her carefully as he considered how to answer.
"Depends," Marshall finally answered. "Do you feel up to eggs and pancakes, or should I just make some toast?" Mary lit up at the idea of a real breakfast... this was Marshall, seriously? The king of the continental breakfast buffet, offering pancakes? He suppressed his grin, knowing that even if she picked toast, he'd won some serious points for remembering how much Mary loved a good, hearty breakfast. "So, pancakes and eggs?" he asked.
"Maybe just the pancakes," Mary answered, putting her hand to her stomach. "I'm not sure I'm ready to tackle eggs yet." Marshall smiled gently and nodded.
"Pancakes for the lady," he said, as he got up and made his way down the hall, hearing her begin to follow him. "You should lie down before that painkiller knocks you on your ass," he said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen.
"What did you think the racket in the bathroom was?" Mary asked, her characteristic eyeroll proclaiming her annoyance.
"Terrifying," Marshall muttered under his breath as he began taking the needed ingredients out of the cabinet. That made Mary blink. She'd never been a lip-reader, but that word had come across loud and clear. Terrifying. Huh. She had no idea Marshall worried that much over her. She wondered, as she made her way to the sofa, if that was a new thing, or if he'd always been overprotective and she'd just now begun to notice. Either way, she thought, turning on the TV. Almost instinctively, she found a movie on that Marshall would inevitably hate. She wasn't even sure what it was, but it was 18 minutes into it and already there was a nice, loud car chase... just what she felt like zoning out in front of today. A few minutes later, Marshall joined her in the living room, standing by the end of the sofa.
"Pancakes are cooking. Water, milk, or cranberry juice?"
"Ew, gross!" Mary almost shouted, wearing a disgusted expression. "I'll take cranberry juice!" Marshall almost laughed at her reaction... for reasons he'd never really understood, the woman wasn't big on water or milk, especially first thing in the morning. But somehow, she'd managed to develop an affinity for the tart, almost bitter cranberry juice that he'd grown up on. He nodded his understanding and turned back to the kitchen.
"Oh," Marshall said, turning his head toward Mary just enough to be heard. "Nice pajamas." Mary immediately glanced down, entirely unsure what she was even wearing. Oh yeah. His flannel pajama set, the one with the antique cars all over. She'd never seen him wear the shirt, and didn't even know it existed until she pulled what she thought were the pants out of his drawer, intending to grab a plain pajama shirt, but then found herself still looking at the pants neatly folded beneath what had turned out to be a matching shirt. It looked so cuddly and warm to her that she'd taken the whole set with her.
"Where do you get Model T pajamas, anyway?" she asked. "Some adult-sized baby catalog?" She'd meant to suggest a company that carried nostalgic products for those people who, for reasons Mary would never understand, felt the need to relive their childhood through overpriced reproductions of goofy items they'd had growing up, but when Marshall's head popped around the corner of the kitchen, eyebrows nearly touching due to how intently he was frowning, she realized her words had unintentionally suggested something substantially less appropriate. "That didn't come out right," she said, frowning and shaking her own head.
"Not so much, no," Marshall answered, a teasing grin replacing his earlier shock. "I got them at the mall, and they're not Model T, though that is what the manufacturer's labeling said they were. The manager took five percent off for the error." Mary rolled her eyes. Leave it to Marshall to complain to some poor store manager making fifty cents above minimum wage, about some overseas manufacturer not knowing what they were selling. "That's a 1933 Chverolet Eagle," Marshall continued. "The Chevrolet had dual sidemount spare tires, whereas the Model T didn't even come with a spare, early on. Also the Chevrolet had substantially different specs, such as two more cylinders and about 40 more horsepower, though that's not evident from a photo." Mary glanced up toward the kitchen, annoyed expression firmly in place, but annoyance gave way to a grin when she saw Marshall wasn't looking. Somewhere along the way she'd learned to love his constant inane trivia, though she'd never let him discover that secret.
"Well, whatever, they're nice pajamas," she replied. A few moments later, Marshall returned, plate and glass in hand, pancakes steaming and buttered the way she liked them. Huh. She'd never know he was paying enough attention to know how she liked her flapjacks, and yet there they stood, topped just so. Mary took the items, muttering her thanks as she settled more upright on the couch.
"They look better on you," Marshall commented, handing her breakfast to her before disappearing back into the kitchen to prepare his own food. Mary froze at that, blinking. She supposed after the whole emotional love-fest that had gone on a couple weeks back, that she shouldn't have been caught off-guard by his pronouncement. Nor, she thought, should she feel awkward about it. But there was just something weird to her, about a guy liking the way she looked... ever, really. It had caught her completely by surprise when Bobby D had called her hot, too, a couple years back... and when Marshall himself had had trouble looking at her in the low-cut dress her sister had loaned to her once. But... pajamas? Long flannel pajamas? Long, flannel, ill-fitting, Marshall-sized pajamas? Did she really look good in that? Could she look good in it? And did she even want to look good enough for a guy, even Marshall, to notice her looking good in long, flannel, ill-fitting, Marshall-sized pajamas? Mary was entirely unsure about this... and yet, something about it felt really, really good, she mused, as she started working on her breakfast. Marshall had presented her with too much food, but it tasted amazing and she was determined to eat every bite, even if it took all day. Which it just might.
After a pancake and a half, Mary set her plate aside, shaking her head when Marshall asked if she was finished eating. "I'll finish it, geez, it's just going to take a while. I hadn't eaten in almost four days when Stan made me those potatoes last night; I'm not going to just rebound from that all at once, like some kind of magic act!" Marshall raised one eyebrow slightly. He'd been expecting her to flip out sooner or later, though he'd hoped it wouldn't come. That was irrational, of course, but he'd hoped just the same.
"What's bothering you?" he asked, bracing himself for the answer. Mary glared his direction, then stared back at the TV as she heaved a sigh, obviously thinking up an answer.
"What's wrong with me is you're mothering me to death, with the pills, and the nagging, and, and standing by the bathroom door! I can't even take a shower alone, what, do I have to lock the door? I don't even have control over my life, you just carry me to the damn hospital, and then cart me around right in front of my boss, and, do you have any idea how embarr... I mean, Jesus, Marshall, what are you... I don't even know what time this damn appointment is, and you and Shelley both are going to expect me to just tell my whole damn life story on command like a damn trained seal!" Mary's rage had seemed to fizzle out of her in the last line or two, as her brain started to get more flustered, probably an effect of the painkillers she was on. Marshall raised an eyebrow again as she slumped back against the sofa, watching as the fight, if not the anger, seemed to be slipping away.
"That all you got?" he asked, almost surprised by the short duration of her rage. Mary yawned in response.
"Damn painkiller with its damn drowsiness..." she muttered. Marshall smothered a laugh, wondering how many times she was going to work "damn" into her quickly-subsiding anger.
"Lay down, Mary... sleep. There will be time for righteous anger later. Shelley's coming here straight from work. She said she'd probably be here around six," he answered, supplying at least a little bit of the information she needed to feel like she had a handle on her life. It must have been scaring her half to death, he realized, for other people to be in control of so much, the past couple days. The medications had been covering over that terror, but that didn't make any of it go away. It had just been easier to deal with, than an un-drugged, healthy Mary would have been, a fact which he appreciated, even as it made him feel like a selfish coward for not wanting to endure the full force of his treasured partner's seething rage, even more so because she had every right to be enraged at the hand she'd been dealt in life.
Marshall almost tried to goad Mary into anger, just to soothe his own sense of selfishness for being glad that she'd worn out so quickly, but then he suddenly realized Mary was moving again. He watched as she tilted toward him, letting her weight fall onto her palms as she crawled across the couch until she had stretched out. She lowered herself gently down, her head resting on his leg, apparently taking his advice to give in to the drowsiness for now. Marshall's heart melted at the gesture of trust. Maybe he'd been wrong to feel selfish... maybe Mary did need to calm down, to rest and relax, to have fewer chances to break his resolve to endure her uncontrolled emotions. Besides... there was something adorable about the mop of hair all over his lap, the fingertips barely visible in the too-big pajamas, toes entirely hidden. Marshall pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and over his partner's body, smiling as she grunted softly and pulled it up around her chin. He was certain she'd wake up just as angry as she'd fallen asleep, but her injured heart and body both needed the rest. Marshall grinned as Mary's breathing took on a light, almost feminine snore, asleep already. He took the opportunity to brush his fingers through her damp hair – and to change from this absurd car-chase movie to his preferred History Channel.
Okay, I'd meant to get on to Shelley's visit this chapter, but Mary just had more and more ideas for chewing up space, and then I realized this is my longest chapter yet, according to my word processor's page count at least. So we're going to break here, and then get on to her visit next. I'll try to get the next chapter done faster, but... well. The good news is I have some VERY clear ideas about what will happen next. Bad news, family drama and a fickle muse both conspire against me this coming weekend. Thanks for your patience.
Am I getting any better at writing Angry Mary, though? I've been practicing, but I think the skill isn't quite there yet. Oh, bit of trivia – Marshall's pajamas may or may not exist, but I got the idea when I was in the garage earlier, and I tripped over the bumper of the mostly-restored 1933 Chevrolet Eagle that my parents ditched at my house a few years ago. Many people mistake it for the Ford Model T, which is quite a bit older, and the 33 has "Chevrolet" boldly written in a couple places, while Henry Ford built, you know, Ford branded cars. And, well, I'm dangerously close to slipping into Marshall-mode, but trust me, there are numerous reasons that people's assumption that ancient car = Model T is hilarious. Which is how Marshall ended up with said pj's.