"Uh-oh, I'm always on a mission from the get-go…."

Pink, "Bad Influence"

….

Even after the whole Norah thing, Marshall still couldn't find that happy medium between Abigail and Mary. And Mary could tell it was rough on him. They spent the next two days exchanging awkward glances, and pretending as if Mary hadn't fallen apart in his arms just days before. It was easier that way. Going back to miserable was a simple transition, she tried to convince herself that it really didn't matter, she got him for that night, she got him for his support, and she took full advantage of every sympathetic touch, using her imagination to transport her back to a time when those reasonless strokes and caresses were everything. But now, as she watched Marshall thumb through catalogs and had eavesdropped on mind numbing conversations about frosting and fondant, suddenly it was as if they had never mattered, it was as if all of those years of partnership, of playful bickering and getting shot at together meant null. Abigail was the newer model, skinnier, no baggage and the sassy southern drawl was just the icing on the overly extravagant wedding cake.

Mary crushed the last dose of Norah's anti-biotic in her pears and placed it in the refrigerator, ready for squish when Bug started fussing. Mary always felt anxious leaving Norah with her sister so often these days, but she insisted that she needed the practice and would almost immediately shake awake any guilt for her sister and continue out the door no problem to the sunshine building. That particular day, more than prepared for the normal, cold and awkward "hello" from Chief Mann she was taken by surprise when he pulled her into his office.

"You and me are going to my favorite pub, we're gonna have a glass of wine and have our own little celebration! A best friend deal, what do you say?"

"I don't know… Norah, and what about Abigail, she can't be particularly happy with you about ditching out on couples game night to talk me off that ledge two nights ago, maybe it's not a good idea…" Was she saying that? Who was she? Most of all, who was she to pass up a night with Marshall. This could very well be the last best bud huzzah they could have, not that the tension wouldn't ruin it, but eventually as the years went by, time would warp it into a good time…. Hopefully.

"C'mon! My brothers can't fly in til the day of Mare! Plus, Abigail will be pleased, this can be the substitute for my bachelor party!" he suggested, trying his hardest to convince her.

"That's true, I can't blame her, I wouldn't want a dork for brains like you near strippers, she patrols those corners they solicit, she wouldn't want word getting around Albuquerque that you're a complete geekazoid." She remarked, resting on the edge of a table Marshall had placed near the door almost immediately after becoming chief.

"So you'll accompany me?" he raised his eyebrows.

"What the hey? Free alcohol, god, I couldn't be any more in." she smirked.

"That's the spirit!" he yelled, almost flamboyantly, "I'll see you at eight!"

She sighed, wondering if this were truly a good idea, after all, with only a medium tolerance for alcohol, it wouldn't take much of it buzzing through her system for her to let something slip. Almost everything running through her brain lately wasn't for Marshall's ears, anyone's ears really- not even her own.

"Squish?"

"What?" Brandi called from the bathroom, which seemed to be her new place of residence since she reappeared not too long ago.

"The pears are all ready! And she has to eat pears, you hear me? I don't care if she kicks and screams you get her to swallow at least half of that jar!" A short silence. "BRANDI!" she screamed, not at all in the mood to deal with sibling conundrums at the moment.

"Okay! I'm not stupid! Norah's napping, when she wakes up pears! I got it! Have fun on your date with Marshall!" she yelled, the usual rasp on her voice breaking the sentence into two parts.

"For the final time it is not a date! You make it sound like I'm his god damn mistress, Christ Squish; if you weren't pregnant I'd smack you upside the head!" The idea had seemed tantalizing lately, but Mary had been trying to lay off of her, even if she didn't like to admit it most of the time, she had been where her sister was and it was not an emotional cakewalk to say the least. "It's a bachelor party!" Mary added, peeking out the window to make sure Marshall was the one sporadically honking the car horn outside.

"You're not a bachelor! Doesn't Marshall realize you have boobs?" she replied. Collecting all of her sarcasm to respond with such a poor comeback, clearly not as versed in the art of satire that he older sister was.

Yes he did, she thought, on several occasions, most of them being in her early pregnancy. She chuckled quietly to herself, remembering his blue eyes bulging from their sockets that day she showed up to work, wearing her last clean, but ill-fitting button up. Oh doofus, if she currently hadn't been too busy being pissed off about his life, she would find ways to bring that up all of the time, any day, any hour, possibly via text message, but wait. Maybe that fell under the category of "things you couldn't do after you let someone go". Whatever, they were going out tonight, it didn't even matter it was to sip on cheap wine and eat nasty chicken wings, it was a slice of his time, it was a big deal, considering the last five or six times they had seen each other was by appointment. "Mare I'm kind of busy right now" and "If this isn't about a witness it will have to wait" had become his two favorite phrases at the office these days.

The bar wasn't far from Mary's home, fifteen minutes tops, but that seemed like forever when she had to listen to a purely one-sided conversation between Abigail and Marshall on his car speakers. It ended with Miss. Federal Agent U.S.A reminding Marshall for the seventh or eighth time that if he didn't get home before eleven to feed Oscar, it would be his fault and his fault only when the dog tore up a pair of his favorite sneakers. He chuckled, but Mary didn't find that humorous at all, would it hurt her to open a can of dog food for the poor mutt? Oh, wait she might break a nail. Never mind, that was a big no no… She couldn't have an infected cuticle or sore fingertip if her wedding was only two days away. God forbid. Mary rolled her eyes at the sick little good bye they exchanged, not quite as bad as the 'no, you hang up' but close. There were a lot of smooching sounds back and forth, after about the third one, Mary was tempted to kick his iPhone, but that may have come across as rude and may have been an unsupportive thing to do….

Most of the conversation was wedding talk, they completely jumped around that day at the hospital, the nearly inedible overcooked poultry they were gnawing on and Abigail all together. When Marshall talked to Mary about anything "wedding" he tried not to mention his bride to be. He wasn't worried Mary couldn't handle it, but he probably just wished to prevent an uncomfortable silence or an inappropriate joke from her. Sometimes it sounded like he was marrying himself.

Probably not even an hour later, the two had finished eating their shares of over salted chicken and had now planted themselves at the bar. What was supposed to be just a glass of wine and a beer with dinner had turned into 'just keep em' coming'. He didn't object so neither did she, if this wasn't crossing the line to Marshall, she would enjoy the moment, even if it meant a horrible hangover tomorrow. They were completely whipped, but they were getting the chance to chat. Mary no openly whined about Norah's random sleeping patterns while she teethed and Marshall got a lot off of his chest about his fiancé's choice of center pieces, even going as far as saying,

"A woman planning her wedding is almost as controlling as you are Mare, I feel sorry for the guy who has to organize seating arrangements with you…" Mary knew it wasn't supposed to come across as rude or hurt her feelings, but it stung all the same.

"Yeahhhh, well, you'll only have to deal with me for a little while longer chief, you're my boss now after all and if little Miss. Prissy Pants wants it bad enough, I bet you'll find somewhere to transfer me…"

Marshall looked over, hurt flooding his red face,

"Mare?" he questioned, the alcohol taking hold of the vowels in her nick name.

Only out of utter inebriation did she continue, sober Mary would have found a way out of the deep hole she had just dug. One thing she always forgot, because she was never in this position often, was Marshall was unusually sharp when he was wasted.

"No Marsh, I get ittt…. I reallyyyyyy do! Hell I would have picked the Southern bell F.B.I Agent over the U.S Marshall with baggage and a few extra pounds any day- pfft! That's practically a no brainer…" She sipped sloppily at her glass of wine, her head feeling heavy on her shoulders, the lights feeling slightly too bright for her semi glossy eyes. She barely noticed Marshall staring down at his eighth or ninth beer, his mouth partially open as if about to speak,

"I didn't. Knoww. You felt that way…" he replied pausing carefully in between each word.

"Oh doofus, I can't be the one to talk, I didn't know either…" she answered guiltily, looking down at her empty glass, looking somewhat surprised that it was empty, even going as far as looking over her shoulder as if someone had taken it from her full and returned it without a drop.

"I have to go home; Oscar's probably eating my shoes right now. Bartender! Would you kindly call my friend and me cabs?" Marshall waved his hand over his head and then let it fall limply to his side.

"Are you mad at meee?" she asked in drunken childishness. "What did I say?" Mary innocently wondered as Marshall seemed to be turning over the words that had come out of her mouth only seconds ago that she had already forgotten. He looked over at his partner, his eyes were glossy, even an abnormally sloshed Mary realized it wasn't because he was drunk, but as if he were… crying?

She hiccupped, raising her hand to signal that she was about to make words, but Marshall shoved his hand into his pocket, slammed down a few bills and stumbled toward the door before she could spout another drunken defense. She hopped from her chairs, without her usual swiftness and delayed and ungraceful followed him, needled to say, she did not walk a straight line.

"YO M- hiccup- MARSHALL WAIT UP!" she shouted, but the weight of the door sent her reeling backward, after a second attempt, by shifting her weight awkwardly enough, she pushed it open with inebriated ease.

"Marshall?" she repeated, squinting from the bright moonlight overhead.

"Mary, you can't do that! I love you! You can't drop a bomb like that in me!" he slurred, unusually sharp.

"What bomb doof for brains?" she asked slightly confused the cool air to nothing to bring her to.

"We shouldn't be talking about this again! We settled this, on the roof! Plus, we're friends, great friends and it doesn't help we are drunk!" he stated with the most sense he could conjure up with the vast amounts of alcohol pulsating through his system.

"We're not drunk.." Mary giggled, ignoring the remark about the roof completely and continuing with what obviously was going to be a drunken quip, "We're talking in cursive!" she inched closer, squinting to see his expression had gone from downright serious to amused in a matter of seconds. She began to laugh too, satisfied as Marshall chuckled from deep in his belly. Soon, her former partner was clutching his stomach, grasping her shoulder as not to fall over while he appreciated the joke much more than he should have. As he made himself vertical again, his hand still rested gently on her person, causing Mary to tingle from head to toe. Feeling the familiar sensation of Marshall's touch sobered her a little and suddenly, she yearned to be held by him, to weep on his shoulder, to beg him not to go through with his marriage. She wanted to cling to him for the rest of time. What an epiphany to have in the parking lot of a scummy irish pub she thought, but it was better than to not have it at all. She closed her eyes to savor the moment, and while they remained that way she could feel his gaze, like he was studying her, and the warmth of his breath became closer with each passing second.

Mary had reached up to touch his hand when it happened. A moment she never expected, but as it occurred, realized she had been waiting for that exact thing all along.

Forgetting everything and everyone around the, the had locked lips, happily exploring with their hands around each other's back sides. It would have been a perfect moment, but the smell of alcohol was strong and they both wreaked of fried foods and peanuts from being perched at the bar for the last few hours before.

As they separated from each other, the shame in Marshall's eyes was much too intense for Mary to have appreciated the moment when it had ended. In a clouded series of movements, facial expressions and slurred dialogue, Mary watched a clearly confused, skeptic Marshall open the door of the first of the two waiting cabs. He waved for her to take a seat in the smelly vehicle, maintaining his chivalrous attitudes even with his betrayal fresh in his mind. He threw around words and phrases like "inappropriate" and "uncalled for" around in the process, leaving Mary with a quivering farewell he closed the door.

Was this his way of telling her he hadn't meant it? Was it truly just a drunken bad choice? Was she really going to go down in his memory as his last pre-marital poor decision? Because- because to her it wasn't a mistake, it wasn't something he should be apologizing for, if anything it was her who should be sorry, but she wasn't, she wasn't one to lie and she wouldn't now. She was absolutely not sorry.

She regretted things; some people believe that those who are brash, or maintain a rougher, harder exterior don't regret things. She did, in fact if she was asked to count on her fingers everything she regretted, she would need her toes too, maybe Marshall's two hands as well and a few of his toes…She did regret things, of course, but this night- would never be one of them.