Pensamiento

By Cortexikid

Chapter 2: Brazen Contemplation

A/N: So, here's chapter 2 from Marshall's POV. I found out quickly that I love writing for In Plain Sight, so I may do another small fic after this. Hope you enjoy!

"Hey, handsome, you look like you could use some company," came a gentle, sugary-sweet tone laced with a not-so-subtle shot of romantic interest.

Marshall Mann turned in his seat at the bar and was met by the sight of a beautiful, short and slender, red-headed woman with bright blue eyes, smiling brightly up at him, swirling a very girly-looking drink in her well-manicured hand. She was the depiction of elegance, a woman that had the air of never getting her hands dirty – who never had a hair out of place. Picture perfect and prim and proper. And looked a hell of a long way from home in this particular bar.

"Thank you for your kind offer but I'm afraid I wouldn't be great company tonight," he replied politely, bringing up his glass to gulp down the last of another scotch.

There must have been something in his face or tone that the woman didn't want to challenge as she merely nodded, throwing him one last look of obvious interest, before responding lowly, "alright then, but if you change your mind…" she let her suggestion hang and sauntered (hips swinging with impossible captivation) over to a table to his far right, clearly visible in his peripheral vision.

Marshall watched half-heartedly as she sat down and raised her glass to him in a faux-toast gesture. With a tight smile he raised his now empty glass to her before his eyes dropped to the counter and he motioned to the bartender for another.

Over the slurs of half-way drunks and rowdy pool players, Marshall heard the advances the woman was getting from all directions. He frowned a little as he heard what had to have been some of the weirdest pick-up lines such as "Doc, I think Billy has fleas," and "Doc, I think Maisie is depressed…" Slowly, he smiled, realizing his mistake. Apparently, the red-head was the town's veterinarian; either that or these men hadn't a clue how to flirt. It appeared, looks were deceiving. This was obviously a woman who got her hands dirty (the manicure must have been a new addition) and only had tightly fixed hair on a Saturday night out. Marshall must admit, it was a pleasant surprise to be wrong sometimes.

He listened intently for a few moments as the vet politely answered all queries of the surrounding men with a kindness and patience he hadn't seen in a very long time. He also picked up on a hint of superior intelligence but was masked with humble understanding and a woman that didn't want to over-complicate things. Slowly, Marshall returned his gaze back to his glass and away from intelligent, beautiful – if a little forward vets.

Usually, when selecting out-of-town bars Marshall followed a type of strict criteria. For example, they must have an adequate range of various liquors, a not-too-disgusting men's room and a pool table or dart board or some activity to that affect available. Tonight however, he just let his feet lead him to the closest dive in this one horse town that he found himself stuck in for the night. No criteria needed. They sold scotch and that was good enough for him.

Upon inspection, Marshall was a man whom had the air of utter exhaustion about him and understandably so. He had just spent the day with Jack O'Hara, an old Irish immigrant, a witness to a gang-land shooting that now needed anonymity and a fresh start as well as constant check-ins from his regular Marshal Mary Shepard, it would seem.

But, considering Mary was…unavailable this last week (Marshall barely suppressed a shudder as that thought reached his alcohol-soaked conscious) that duty fell to her partner, her friendly, loyal, lap-dog of a partner Marshall frickin' Mann.

"Here you go man," the bartender interrupted Marshall's darkening thoughts.

"Thanks," he murmured abruptly, practically slamming down a crisp twenty dollar bill on the bar.

He could feel the other man's gaze on him as he took up the glass and emptied it in one large gulp. He had a feeling that the bartender was expecting some sort emotional outburst from him and was waiting to be the faux-psychiatrist that most bartenders tended to be but Marshall just wasn't in the 'sharing is caring' mood. Still, he appreciated the unspoken gesture.

"Rough day, huh?"

Marshall looked up in surprise, not expecting to be verbally acknowledged again, he wasn't giving off that kinda vibe after all.

"You could say that," he found himself replying before he could really think about it.

"I hear that…you from outta town?"

Marshall knew this tactic well; he used it a lot on his witnesses. The 'make-them-feel-comfortable-by-asking-them-rudimentary-questions' move. Simple but effective.

"Yeah, sort of. I just decided to stop in for a few before going back to the hotel," he murmured, still well-alert to be his professional U.S Marshal self and not give away any crucial information. And this was after downing four glasses of scotch in less then a half hour. Another perk of being excellent at his job and being able to hold his liquor.

"You look like you've got some troubles," the bartender prodded attentively as he refilled Marshall's glass.

Here Marshall laughed humorously before rolling his eyes.

"Don't we all?" he asked rhetorically.

The bartender nodded in understanding, not wanting to overstep his mark.

"That we do, man. So, are you the 'my girl just left me' type or the 'I hate my job' type?"

Marshall almost grimaced as those words met his ears. Maybe his hypothesis of most bartenders being practically psychiatrists wasn't far off after all.

"A little bit of both tonight I guess…" he responded lowly, this time taking only a small sip from his re-filled glass. He knew his limit and wasn't going to push it; he still had to make it safely back to the office in the morning and sure as hell didn't want to drive with a mother of a hangover.

"Ha. That I definitely get…the woman trouble especially. You never can please 'em, huh?" he asked his own rhetorical question before another customer caught his eye and he apologetically excused himself.

Marshall contemplated the man's words as he was left alone with his thoughts. He was right, maybe a little sexist in Marshall's opinion but Marshall wasn't thinking about the female population in general. No, Marshall was just thinking about one particular female.

His partner. Mary.

Mary Shannon who was at present somewhere in Mexico, laughing and drinking and probably sexing it up with that slime ball Faber.

And that just turned his stomach. Literally. Perhaps the scotch was beginning to help too, he couldn't tell.

And so, yeah, the bartender had a point to some extent. In this instance, Marshall knew that he couldn't please Mary. He couldn't give her everything she thought she wanted. He couldn't just be some cowboy for her to screw in a seedy motel in an alcohol-induced haze. He couldn't and wouldn't be that guy.

But Faber could. And was.

Which was more than likely the reason that he was invited to accompany Mary on her first vacation in years. He could fill whatever…need…Mary had.

Well, either that was the reason, or, there was one other. Just one. The one that frightened Marshall to the very depths of his soul.

The terrifying possibility that Mary had not misunderstood his near-proclamation in the office that day. The thought that she knew well what and whom he was talking about when he told her she needed someone that challenged her, got in her face called her on her bullshit and made her think. The thought that after concluding this she ran for the hills (or in this case Mexico) with a 'cowboy' to get the awful truth that was staring her in the face out of her mind.

The terrible truth that her partner, good, loyal, friendly, puppy-dog, geek-chic Marshall was irretrievably in love with her. And had nearly, practically admitted as such, not once, but twice in the last year…

This was the haunting possibility that plagued Marshall the last five days, on and off the job, in the morning, afternoon, evening and night. It plagued him awake, asleep and in that moment on the edge of the in between. It didn't let him rest, physically or emotionally.

So, finally, Marshall did the only thing he could do after a long, tiring day of work. He drank. In a non-criteria-ticking bar. In a one-horse town. With a more than sympathetic bartender and under the watchful eye of a woman so different to his type (could it be called a 'type' if there was only one woman who fell under his category?) as she could possibly get.

And it was also the reason that Marshall felt broken. Lost. And so very…alone. Hurt. Devastated. Tortured and…so many other words that it pained him just to think of them.

Suddenly, a whirl of red caught his eye, momentarily detracting him from his self-proclaimed pathetic stream of melancholy thought.

It was the beautiful woman with the swinging hips and girly drink. The woman that had shown a distinct interest in him. The sweet and patient woman that obviously let him know that he was a man that could fulfil a need for her.

And his interest was peaked. Despite her being all wrong…or at least, all different to what he was used to.

Thoughts of his partner swirled in his head as he stood up and walked closer to where the red-head sat on a stool, perched upright and drumming her nails off the bar with light impatience. As she turned to look at him and offer him a sweet and charming grin, a pleased glint in her eye and an expression of wonder for what was to come, he realized that perhaps he wasn't so inept, so wrong for any woman. That perhaps, he could please one woman, even if it weren't the one he loved.

And it was that motivation alone that provoked him (before his more sober, rational, love-stricken side could protest) to offer his hand to the woman of auburn hair and welcoming gentle personality and say with utter calm and confidence:

"Hi, I'm Marshall. Can I buy you a drink?"

A/N: So, I've decided to make this a three-shot. I liked leaving this chapter at this point and wanted the next instalment to stand alone so hopefully nobody objects.

The next chapter should be up pretty quickly as I've begun it already. Hope you guys are enjoying my first IPS fanfic!

So…what do you think? Should Marshall take a break from all the hardass, sarcastic and let's face it awesome women (woman) and go for the safe, pleasant and dare I say it, sweet as sugar type?

No, I don't think so either… =]

A review would be lovely

~Cortexikid