Feeling is falling
Title: Feeling is falling.
Pairing: M2
Spoilers: through "Iris doesn't live here anymore"
Rating: PG for language maybe
Genre: Angst
Disclaimer: I own nothing. USA Network, Mary McCormack... Fred ::sigh:: are not making me any money.
Summary: Marshall's introspective. Mary's inebriated.
Author's Note: I have had major writer's block in my other fandoms but I read this quote: Longing we say, because desire is full of endless distances and immediately thought of Marshall's Mary love. That, and the fact that they glossed over Marshall's recovery. It took me awhile to get this out. It's not perfect on their voices but.. comment and criticize. I mainly enjoy reactions in either vein...
She doesn't tell him. That would be simple. Mary never is. And tonight he is tired. Sitting on his couch. Feeling all thirty-five of his years with a bullet wound blasting him backwards into a deserted diner wet with the blood of near death. Mary's on her own. the traitorous thought sneaks a strange relief downward through his veins. He's her partner, her friend, but sometimes selfishly, he needs the distance she uses as armor to save himself.
Something is wrong. He knows but she won't say and pushing gets him nowhere so he stays silent. Waits on the shifting sands of her emotions for the white flash that blinds him. Marshall shivers in the air conditioning. He's accustomed to her abuse but he never enjoys it. His mind drifts through baseball stats, the meaning of black holes, his perception of pain. Anything to distract him from the central question of Mary. It should work. Usually it does, but he's remembering her face. Terrified at the idea of leaving him, betraying him because in her mind one action means the other, in the desert with no backup. To die. Her demand to the contrary, pale strong face, dark insistent eyes, the gentleness of a kiss she will never repeat. He knows his girl.
If it was just physical. The need for skin on skin contact, the adrenaline flush of sensual fireworks, he would stand between her and Ramirez. Take his chance and revel in the damage. Mary does sex the way he does facts. Automatic and easy. Familiar. The surest way to lose her. The last thing he wants when he's still figuring out how she was named Mary with a mother called Jinx and a sister named Brandi. Stripper names. But he means that kindly. It's inane; but he knows the exact number of steps she takes from the elevator to her desk every morning. It changes with her mood. Averages between thirty-six and forty-two plus or minus the negotiation over coffee. Marshall smiles faintly, getting up from the couch. Ready to sleep. Mary will never be anything more or less than a cheapskate with her money, with her heart. He's learning to accept this. Slowly. The keeper of an exotic animal cannot necessarily tame it. Doesn't want to, if he's perfectly honest.
Halfway to the bathroom he hears her knock; the persistent pound of a full blown temper tantrum. It irritates more than surprises him. He's the safety net, without having one of his own. No one's cushioning his fall when he bends under the tumult of her rage and indignation. Breaking with his own needs and wishes. No one's telling him to let go. And he should but he can't. Her face in the dimness of an abandoned diner... pale and lined with worry. Lost. It gives him hope.
He opens the door. Mary tumbles in with a bottle of tequila and a frown.
"Raph took Brandi's side. He lectured me," she explains gruffly, stalking into his kitchen with her raw pride flaring in her angry stride. Marshall cannot count her steps. He's listening to her, the delicate clatter of glass while she grouses to herself. He's watching her, know his kitchen the way he does not know hers. One shotglass on the counter, blonde hair shaking.
"Did you try the gym?" he suggests mildly, leaning against the wall. Mary glares at him, tossing a shot back with a flick of her wrist.
"I punched two guys out. One lost a tooth. Went to the shooting range and wasted a box of bullets on paper men. My last two options were drinking or fucking the anger away." She brandishes a shotglass full of yellow medicine to illustrate her choice. Another shot disappears down the long column of her bobbing throat. Marshall cants his head sideways with a half smile for the unconsciously sexy picture she makes.
"I'm not ready to fuck Raph" her voice is bleak, barbed wire and Marshall registers the truth silently jealous and resigned. Takes the shotglass and pours another shot. Mary smells like gypsum and oatmeal soap. Clean and dry as he gulps the tequila quickly. He hands the glass back. She touches it to her lips thoughtlessly. Marshall pretends there is nothing special about tequila staining her lips wet gold. His personal El Dorado. An insidious ache that swamps his sleepy senses, crossing his arms against the growing impulse to kiss her or shake her. The burn of tequila that leaves him slightly nauseous.
It's understood that she is spending the night. Only natural after her sixth tequila when she's agreeable with horizontal thinking. Wanting sex and sweat to be the apology her mouth can't handle. Mary leans into Marshall and he takes her touch for the momentary weakness it is. The safety of boundaries she can control. He rakes his hands through her hair and Mary sighs happily. Marshall knows he should let go. Lead her to the couch. Transfer to a different state. If he's ready to quit the Marshals, the job he was raised to do, because of a girl then something's wrong.
With a kiss to her forehead, Marshall guides Mary to his living room. Deposits her with effort on the couch, throws a blanket over quickly. He wants to be in bed. Mary's eyes flutter open for a moment, shiny and wide. Stay. She won't ask him. Marshall leans forward. Gives in; the weight of want agony along his bones. He leans back. Tonight he is thirty-five and old. Dying in a diner with no love of his own. He's her partner, her friend but distance doesn't exist with the longing wordless on his lips.
"Go to sleep, Mary" he whispers, retreating to the shadows of boundaries that only she controls.
Pairing: M2
Spoilers: through "Iris doesn't live here anymore"
Rating: PG for language maybe
Genre: Angst
Disclaimer: I own nothing. USA Network, Mary McCormack... Fred ::sigh:: are not making me any money.
Summary: Marshall's introspective. Mary's inebriated.
Author's Note: I have had major writer's block in my other fandoms but I read this quote: Longing we say, because desire is full of endless distances and immediately thought of Marshall's Mary love. That, and the fact that they glossed over Marshall's recovery. It took me awhile to get this out. It's not perfect on their voices but.. comment and criticize. I mainly enjoy reactions in either vein...
She doesn't tell him. That would be simple. Mary never is. And tonight he is tired. Sitting on his couch. Feeling all thirty-five of his years with a bullet wound blasting him backwards into a deserted diner wet with the blood of near death. Mary's on her own. the traitorous thought sneaks a strange relief downward through his veins. He's her partner, her friend, but sometimes selfishly, he needs the distance she uses as armor to save himself.
Something is wrong. He knows but she won't say and pushing gets him nowhere so he stays silent. Waits on the shifting sands of her emotions for the white flash that blinds him. Marshall shivers in the air conditioning. He's accustomed to her abuse but he never enjoys it. His mind drifts through baseball stats, the meaning of black holes, his perception of pain. Anything to distract him from the central question of Mary. It should work. Usually it does, but he's remembering her face. Terrified at the idea of leaving him, betraying him because in her mind one action means the other, in the desert with no backup. To die. Her demand to the contrary, pale strong face, dark insistent eyes, the gentleness of a kiss she will never repeat. He knows his girl.
If it was just physical. The need for skin on skin contact, the adrenaline flush of sensual fireworks, he would stand between her and Ramirez. Take his chance and revel in the damage. Mary does sex the way he does facts. Automatic and easy. Familiar. The surest way to lose her. The last thing he wants when he's still figuring out how she was named Mary with a mother called Jinx and a sister named Brandi. Stripper names. But he means that kindly. It's inane; but he knows the exact number of steps she takes from the elevator to her desk every morning. It changes with her mood. Averages between thirty-six and forty-two plus or minus the negotiation over coffee. Marshall smiles faintly, getting up from the couch. Ready to sleep. Mary will never be anything more or less than a cheapskate with her money, with her heart. He's learning to accept this. Slowly. The keeper of an exotic animal cannot necessarily tame it. Doesn't want to, if he's perfectly honest.
Halfway to the bathroom he hears her knock; the persistent pound of a full blown temper tantrum. It irritates more than surprises him. He's the safety net, without having one of his own. No one's cushioning his fall when he bends under the tumult of her rage and indignation. Breaking with his own needs and wishes. No one's telling him to let go. And he should but he can't. Her face in the dimness of an abandoned diner... pale and lined with worry. Lost. It gives him hope.
He opens the door. Mary tumbles in with a bottle of tequila and a frown.
"Raph took Brandi's side. He lectured me," she explains gruffly, stalking into his kitchen with her raw pride flaring in her angry stride. Marshall cannot count her steps. He's listening to her, the delicate clatter of glass while she grouses to herself. He's watching her, know his kitchen the way he does not know hers. One shotglass on the counter, blonde hair shaking.
"Did you try the gym?" he suggests mildly, leaning against the wall. Mary glares at him, tossing a shot back with a flick of her wrist.
"I punched two guys out. One lost a tooth. Went to the shooting range and wasted a box of bullets on paper men. My last two options were drinking or fucking the anger away." She brandishes a shotglass full of yellow medicine to illustrate her choice. Another shot disappears down the long column of her bobbing throat. Marshall cants his head sideways with a half smile for the unconsciously sexy picture she makes.
"I'm not ready to fuck Raph" her voice is bleak, barbed wire and Marshall registers the truth silently jealous and resigned. Takes the shotglass and pours another shot. Mary smells like gypsum and oatmeal soap. Clean and dry as he gulps the tequila quickly. He hands the glass back. She touches it to her lips thoughtlessly. Marshall pretends there is nothing special about tequila staining her lips wet gold. His personal El Dorado. An insidious ache that swamps his sleepy senses, crossing his arms against the growing impulse to kiss her or shake her. The burn of tequila that leaves him slightly nauseous.
It's understood that she is spending the night. Only natural after her sixth tequila when she's agreeable with horizontal thinking. Wanting sex and sweat to be the apology her mouth can't handle. Mary leans into Marshall and he takes her touch for the momentary weakness it is. The safety of boundaries she can control. He rakes his hands through her hair and Mary sighs happily. Marshall knows he should let go. Lead her to the couch. Transfer to a different state. If he's ready to quit the Marshals, the job he was raised to do, because of a girl then something's wrong.
With a kiss to her forehead, Marshall guides Mary to his living room. Deposits her with effort on the couch, throws a blanket over quickly. He wants to be in bed. Mary's eyes flutter open for a moment, shiny and wide. Stay. She won't ask him. Marshall leans forward. Gives in; the weight of want agony along his bones. He leans back. Tonight he is thirty-five and old. Dying in a diner with no love of his own. He's her partner, her friend but distance doesn't exist with the longing wordless on his lips.
"Go to sleep, Mary" he whispers, retreating to the shadows of boundaries that only she controls.