Author's Note: Basic legal crap. I'm poor. I don't even own my own TV. Don't bother suing me. It's all for funsies. Sorry for any typos. I'm tired, and out of practice.
Other stuff: writer's block is over! Rotations from hell are over (for a month). I'm on a nice, easy, elective rotation now. Yay! Time to write! And ACTUALLY study! (gasp) I hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving. Here is the next chapter. Sorry it's shorter than most. I have a headache, and this seemed like a good stopping place.
Marshall shifted and sighed. He couldn't sleep. His brain kept replaying the conversation in the car with Mary on the ride back to the dorms. He physically hurt for her sometimes; her fatalistic view of the world. Her stubborn refusal to stray from her hard-earned outlook drew both admiration and frustration from her partner.
Mary's comment about people's ability to change their own destiny was batting about in Marshall's head as he drove. He'd quit pondering why she was letting him do all the driving already, and had moved on to why she'd asked him such an uncharacteristic question. It wasn't that he thought her incapable of introspection; just questioned why she'd chosen to share such deep insights with him. These were generally the thoughts that she chose to keep to herself. Can people ever change? Are they doomed by the acts of their parents? Can they ever decide their own fate, and then actively change it? Did she worry that she was somehow destined to a life of unhappiness because of her family? Her childhood? How deep, exactly, did her self-doubt go?
Marshall tried to move his arm, but Mary was currently using it as an adjunct to her pillow. He was going to lose feeling in his fingers in a minute; pins and needles were already setting in. He considered her sleeping form for a moment before deciding what to do. She was on her back, but her head was turned to face him, and her hand was resting on the arm he had draped around her waist. Mary was a puzzle to him lately. He thought he'd had her figured out. He knew her moods, and how to deal with them. He knew her likes and dislikes. He'd made headway in resigning himself to the fact that she did not have any sort of romantic feelings for him…and most likely never would. Then her cousin arrived and Mary opened up to him in ways she'd never truly done before. He moved his arm from under her hand and brushed phantom wisps of hair from her face and pondered their relationship. If he kept this up, he'd be dropping from exhaustion before he ever got back to New Mexico.
Closing his eyes and trying to sleep, Mary's echoed in his head.
"Just let it go, Marshall." Her voice was almost pleading, and lacked any of the familiar rancor. "Forget I said anything."
"I can't, Mare." His voice was soft, and he prayed she'd understand his meaning.
"Marshall…" She started, but he cut her off.
"No, Mare. Listen to me." He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. If he wasn't careful he'd just upset her. Alienation was the opposite of his goal. It was always the opposite of his goal.
"Mary, correct me any time if I get this wrong." That should help. She liked having control of things. He'd taken enough psychology in college to understand that this particular trait of hers no doubt stemmed from her childhood, and her inability to control any aspect of her life growing up.
She didn't respond verbally, but she did nod once.
"Mare, I worry sometimes that you think you can't be happy. That you're willing to settle for less in your personal life. I'm concerned that you think you don't deserve more than what you seem to have resigned yourself to accepting." He paused and took a deep breath. She probably wouldn't shoot him while he was driving. Her self-preservational instincts were better than that.
"I see you, Mary." He kept going, praying he wasn't pissing her off. "I see you working. I see you changing and growing. I see the differences in you since we started working together. I know…no…I think you doubt your ability to be happy. I worry that you're used to less; used to people ignoring you and your needs. I'm worried that you think you can't be happy. Truly happy."
He took another breath and glanced at her. She was staring out the passenger side window.
"Mary?" He asked hesitantly. "Are you happy?"
There was a pregnant pause punctuated only by the sounds of the road and their own breathing.
"I don't think happy's on the table, Marshall." Her quiet words stabbed him in the heart.
He remained quiet for a few minutes while he considered her words. The source of them. The pain in them. Happy isn't on the table. The mantra of a woman who's given up. Given up on life and happiness. And love.
"Do you really believe that?"
"Believe what?" She could feign ignorance when she had to.
"That you can't…won't ever be happy?"
She blew out a deep breath and turned tired eyes to meet his. "I have a job I love, I house I love. I have a few friends. I'm fine."
"A few friends?" He repeated skeptically. "You have me. And Katie."
"Fine." She smirked at him, but it wasn't her usual smirk. "I have a couple of friends. Better?"
"I'm not arguing your semantics, Mary, I'm questioning your logic."
"My logic is fine, Socrates. Thank you very much."
"You know Socrates once said that the unexamined life is not worth living." He looked her in the face for effect. "I think if you examine your life more closely you'll discover that you've given up on things you deserve."
"My god you sound like a freaking Lifetime movie." Mary muttered as she reclined the seat.
"My point is that you…"
"Can it, Oprah." Her words were biting, but her tone was not, and he suspected that she was going to think about what he said later. Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.
Mary showered and changed as soon as she got to the room, and had crawled into the bed before Marshall emerged from his shower. He contemplated his options while he fished around in his bag for a tee shirt, and then slid in beside her. He arranged the blankets carefully in case she was already asleep, but the way she shifted away from him let him know she wasn't.
Her silence was a sign, though. She was uninterested in talking to him, and he knew better than to engage her when she was so deeply in thought. Her breathing stilled a few minutes later, and Marshall regretted broaching the subject again when he had the chance. He would, no doubt, be up most of the night again. This trip was wreaking havoc on his circadian rhythm. He was up all day, and most of the past two nights. Surely tonight would be no exception. He tried to sleep. Closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Concentrated on nothing. Counted proverbial sheep. But his mind inevitably drifted to the warm, freshly scented, sleeping figure beside him. He'd slept near her on occasion. Single motel rooms with two beds. Long stake-outs where they took turns snoozing. Passed out on his couch or hers, either from exhaustion or alcohol. He had, though, spent too many nights alone in his home, sprawled out on his too-empty bed thinking about her. Allowing his mind to drift into that most forbidden of territory. Mary.
He cocked an eye open and watched her slumber. Peaceful. Relaxed. A sight he was rarely granted. She worried him on a daily basis. Had worried him since they were first partnered. Sooner, actually, if he was honest with himself. She'd taken an instant dislike to him when they'd met. Mocked his dual name/profession moniker. Passed judgment and made scathing fun of his family life, childhood. He'd quickly learned that her biting rebuke was mostly borne of jealously and awe. For a child who had never had those simple luxuries, his was a life that must have seemed like a fairy tale. He'd allowed her to believe it for years, too, far too worried about appearing to be complaining about what truly was idyllic than actually correcting her. She'd learned the truth when she met his father. That big, gruff, legend of a man whom Marshall had long since given up trying to impress. Mary impressed him without even trying, but it hadn't been her expertise with a shotgun or her wit and charm. Seth Mann told his son later, privately, that his fair partner went to bat for him in his absence. Defended him most vehemently, while still maintaining that air or professionalism and respect that only she could muster around a man like Marshal Seth Mann.
Both eyes open now, he turned his head to look at her. On her side now, facing him, her face scrunched a bit. Eyebrows knitting together and a deep, shaking breath. His hand reached out to caress her face before he could stop it. Knuckles stroking that soft skin in the hollow of her cheek. The reach was awkward, and so he stopped as soon as she stilled and her countenance relaxed. What had she dreamt of, he wondered. Mary had enough demons in her past to keep a grown man up with nightmares. She was moving now, shifting and breathing changed. He closed his eyes and stilled. No sense embarrassing her. He felt her sit up, the blankets gapping and letting cool air around his bare arm. She took a few measured breaths, and then gingerly crawled over him to get out of the tiny bed. He half hoped she'd slip, and then chastised himself for thinking it.
The bathroom door shut quietly, and light from under the door illuminated the dark room. He stared at the closed door and wondered if his partner – his friend was okay. Straining to hear, he closed his eyes and listened for sounds. Breaths hitching. Sobs wrenching. Fists connecting with walls. Nothing. The toilet flushed, water ran for a while. Teeth being brushed again. Then silence. Several minutes of silence passed, and just before he was going to rise and check on her, the light switched off and the door opened quietly. Mary padded carefully across the tile floor and stood beside the bed. He couldn't tell if she was watching him or merely trying to figure the best way back into the bed. He'd give her a few minutes before letting her know he was awake. Concentrating on keeping his breathing even, he waited.
Mary stood stock-still with indecision. She could climb back in bed. Climb over her partner and snuggle against him once more and sleep. Really sleep. It irked her that she'd slept better the past few days than she had in months. Maybe ever. His presence calmed her. She didn't feel the need to keep one eye open. Didn't have to be on alert, although since Horst she'd been more vigilant about his person when they were out in the field. God help her, she'd actually let this geek of man worm his way into her life, and she was hard-pressed to pinpoint when it had happened. When had she become dependent on anyone, much less a man?
"Tell me what you need." Lord, how many times had he said that to her? A simple phrase that she'd never given a second's thought since the first time he'd said it. She'd been in a mood, and she'd flown about the office picking things up and slamming them back down all while raving about the injustices in the legal system. Angry about a good witness being kicked out of the program because her husband breeched security and compromised them both one too many times. Furious that this man had essentially sentenced his wife to death. As she was about to slam down a clay planter of fake geraniums, she'd felt gentle hands on her arms. Focusing with effort, she looked up, surprised to see her partner there. Calm and gentle. He took the planter with one hand, and carefully sat it on the shelf in the break area, and rubbed her shoulders. "Tell me what you need." His earnest plea, repeated time and time again over the years. When had anyone ever asked her what she needed? Why did he care? She wondered today, much as she had back them.
"Because I don't know what you need. I don't know how to make this better or easier for you. Sometimes the job sucks, and we can't change it. But I can help you, if you tell me how."
"But…" She had no words to follow. It was a question she'd never been asked.
Her face had said it all. Utter confusion. Astonishment. A touch of fear. It was the fear that got him. Afraid of him. Afraid of his motives. She didn't trust him yet. Didn't realize that he truly did want to help her. Be there for her. Later that evening, he'd realized from where that fear stemmed. She didn't know how to react to that level of kindness. That degree of caring. Sympathy for her plight. She hadn't experienced it frequently enough to be comfortable with openness. Friendship. Bless her heart, he vowed he'd find a way.
Mary didn't know it, but he thought about that day often. He'd taken her to a park that particular evening. They ate Mexican food from the foil wrappers and drank watered down sodas from paper cups. He hadn't said much, save to point out an interesting plant or identify local wildlife. It was exactly what she needed.
And now, all these years later, he still inquired the same treatise. "Tell me what you need." And she did. He let her be herself. Let her carry on and yell. Get all the inky darkness out of her soul, then he'd check, just to be sure if she was okay. Or he'd bring her pie or take her to dinner. They visited the park a few times a year, always ate food from the same crappy Mexican restaurant, and walked the same trail. It was a ritual of sorts, whenever one of them had a particularly trying day, and each found a measure of comfort in the custom.
The beach today. It was so like him, she realized with a start. He took her because she'd said she wanted to go. It was for her. Words played in her head like a record.
"You can be happy."
"Meet someone halfway."
"You can't even see what's right in front of you."
"Damn." Mary whispered in the darkness at it hit her. "She was talking about you."
A/N: That's all for now. What does Mary do? Run? Accept it? Make sweet, sweet love to her partner? Hmmm. Possibilities.