Secret Snowflake: To Know (Is To Know You Know Nothing) for strwbrygrl77
Title: To Know (Is To Know You Know Nothing)
Author: pipisafoat
Written for: strwbrygrl77
Rating: Teen And Up
Prompt: Mary and Marshall trapped in a snowstorm
Credits: rainbowwizard1 for alpha reading, title assist, encouragement; firesign10 as always for the fantastic beta, comma wrangling, and delightful Darwin awards line
dear reader: I’m reshaping all of season 2 just to make this story be Exactly The Way I Want. Please assume now that at the end of Rubble With A Cause, Mary told Raph the truth about her job and they got engaged about the same time. Let’s Get It Ahn (minus the Raph moving subplot) comes directly after. Aguna Matatala has yet to happen. Jinx is still in alky lockup, as Brandi puts it, and Brandi/Peter is a thing at this point, like they are around One Night Stan and later. Just roll with it.
additional notes: I don’t know that I would formally attach this to any of my other stories as part of a solid series, but in my head, it comes after Though It’s Not Love and An Albuquerque Kidnapping, and it may or may not be related to and coming before the Icarus series. You do not have to read all of these to understand this. It stands on its own. But that’s how they all fit together in my head.
Read the story on AO3 or below the cut:
Marshall tosses the remote onto the cushion beside him, frowning at the now-dark television in frustration. It’s a sad day when even Star Trek can’t distract him, but he’s claiming extenuating circumstances. It’s not every day you toast to the love your life getting married to someone else.
He spent the entire day thinking of that toast, realizing it would fall to him as soon as the ring lodged on his finger. I hope you know that I love you. He thinks he played it off-the-cuff enough for Eleanor not to notice, but Stan can read Marshall as well as Marshall can read Mary. He’s not expecting Stan to ever bring it up, but knowing the older man knows … well, Stan’s Stan. He’s like a father to Marshall, with a little less history than his actual father, and realistically, he knows pretty much everything there is to know about Marshall. But if Mary knows, then he isn’t sure how fucked his life is now - and for the first time since he met her, he’s not sure if she knows something or not.
He glances at his laptop, wondering briefly if porn would distract him, depress him, or remind him of his witnesses. He glances at his bookcase, trying to decide if there exists a book Mary wouldn’t have a comment for; realizing that even if he could find one, he’d spend the whole time thinking about the fact that she wouldn’t have a comment, which really isn’t any better than thinking about whatever comment she’d have for another book. He glances back at the remote, pondering changing to a different show for something to occupy his brain - maybe a scientific sort of documentary? He glances up at the ceiling, wishing the fan were on despite the cold weather just so he would have something worth looking at.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone rings.
“Marshall,” he says without looking at the screen.
“Hi, Mr. Mann,” an unfamiliar voice replies, and he pulls away from the phone to stare baffled at the caller ID - Mary Shannon. “This is Billy of Billy’s Long Bar over on San Mateo Boulevard."
“Of course,” Marshall says, mostly to himself. “Today of all days, of course."
“I can call a cab for her if I need to, Mr. Mann.” Billy sounds exactly as sympathetic as someone who has a bar named after them ought to, and Marshall suddenly wishes he were the drunk one, talking to someone like Billy.
He sighs. “No, no cab, that doesn’t really work for her. I doubt you could get her into the cab, no matter how strong you might be. I’m on my way.” He hangs up and looks back up at the ceiling. I hope you know that I love you. Idiot. She knows. She just doesn’t care any further than to use that fact to her advantage. Same as always.
As he climbs into his car, kicking a slight buildup of snow off his boots, Marshall suddenly realizes two things. The first is that Mary doesn’t get so drunk that someone else has to call him for a ride very often; the last time was after Jinx decided that living room sex was a good idea. The time before that, Jinx had just moved herself into Mary’s house. The first time one of Mary’s witnesses had to be relocated for gross breach of of the MOU. And, of course, the very first time, the time he realized they would be each other’s only friend, before she even knew they would be friendly - when a bartender called him during her second week on the job to say she couldn’t stop talking about how much she missed just shooting people and was now drinking in the owner’s office to keep her from scaring away all the other customers.
The second is that he might be her only friend, but there’s someone closer than that in town now. Two someones, if he counts Brandi, but he doesn’t know a single person who would trust Brandi in this situation. The point is, Mary’s engaged, and her fiancé really ought to be the one to drag her home drunk.
Raph and I are engaged. And then, later, I hope you know that I love you. Of course she’s drinking. She’s Mary. She’s beautiful and brilliant and badass and has shocking social skills. He flashes for a minute on How do you spell Magnusdottir? and has to snort as he backs out of his driveway. Make that no social skills. She’s engaged and her best friend just admitted that he loves her. Brandi would be a terrible person to talk to, and Mary doesn’t talk to Stan the way Marshall sometimes does, the way he knows Stan wishes she would. Alcohol is the only other support in her life. Of course she’s drinking. The real question is, why did Billy the Bartender call Marshall? Picked from her recent calls list as the most often called number? Mary told him to? And if the latter, is it from a habit she’s about to regret or for a reason?
He’s still wondering that when he apologizes to and thanks Billy, guides Mary towards his car, brushes lightly falling snow from her hair. He buckles her in despite her help, gets in his own seat, starts the car, then turns to her.
“Raph busy tonight?"
She stares at him for a long moment, and he wonders if she’s too drunk to follow a conversation. She’s being unusually quiet so far. Marshall studies her face for signs of nausea, overall unresponsiveness, any need to go to a hospital instead of her house. Finding none, he continues his stare in the hopes of intimidating her into answering. As though that ever worked on Mary. He sighs and gives up, reverses from his parking spot, heads to the road.
“Probably not,” she finally mumbles.
“You didn’t call him first?"
Another long silence, then: “No."
“Huh.” I hope you know that I love you. I didn’t want to have a moment like this. “I mean, I don’t mind helping out my best friend-"
“Only friend.”
“My only friend,” he corrects obligingly. The best friend I’ve ever had. Could ever hope to have. “Whatever you need. It just surprised me, that’s all."
“What, you think that just because I’m engaged you get out of the work of taking care of me?” There’s anger in her voice, her suddenly strong and loud and fast voice, and Marshall jerks in his seat.
“What?"
“Sorry, Marshall, but that’s still your job. You don’t get to quit just because I’m … whatever."
“And you don’t think it’s weird that you call me instead of the guy you’re getting married to.” The girl for whom no man will ever be good enough….
“Jesus, Marshall, we … I'm engaged, not dealing with 50 years of marital bliss. What’s your problem?”
He takes a deep breath, then another. Angry drunken Mary. Tequila, then rum. Don’t engage. She’ll throw up around 4 am. Don’t carry the fight to the next day. She remembers the anger but not the words. She apologizes with silent donuts two days later. She doesn’t usually mean what she says, at least not the way it sounds. He knows this Mary. He knows her, the same way he knows professional Mary and PTSD Mary and Jinx’s daughter Mary and Brandi’s sister Mary and I didn’t want to have a moment like this Mary and struggling to support two unappreciative adults Mary and actually likes a few kids Mary and every other part of Mary. She lives in him deeply enough that he understands the whys and the hows and the best ways to react, but--
“What’s your fucking problem, Marshall?” she challenges again, and he can feel his eyes narrow the slightest bit despite his best efforts.
“No problem."
“No problem,” she echoes with more disbelief than any human should be able to pack into two words.
He nods, slow and measured instead of the sharp jerk he’d really prefer in this moment. The light turns green, and he turns left.
“Don’t lie to me again."
Marshall very, very carefully does not grind his teeth at her hard tone, but Mary is the only person he knows who actually gets more observant with alcohol.
“Say it,” she orders, challenge clear in her tone again.
“Nothing to say."
“Say. It."
“Nothing to say,” he repeats, and then before he can stop himself, “You’re the one who needs to say something to me, or do you not believe in answering questions anymore?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her fist clench on her thigh, and he winces inwardly. There is nothing in this car for her to punch without breaking something. Maybe him, depending on where she lands the fist, but he knows she’d break every metacarpal before hitting another person. Knows it like he knows every other thing about her, including her response, and he barely refrains from speaking it along with her.
“I answer questions, which you can tell because I’m answering this one.” The fist slowly, carefully unclenches, fingers spreading over her thigh just as tense as a fist ever could be.
He knows better. He knows better. He knows- “Then tell me why you called me instead of Raph."
“I didn’t call you."
His jaw clenches. “Semantics."
“Truth."
“Tell me why Bartender Billy called me instead of Raph."
“I can’t tell you why someone else does what they do."
“Mary.” He turns onto her street.
“You’d have to ask him what his reasons were."
His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and he can feel his shoulders rising. “I’m assuming his reason is that you told him who to call."
“You do know what they say about assuming, don’t you?"
Something in Marshall snaps, and he slaps the steering wheel hard enough to echo throughout the car, slamming on his brakes at the same time. “I hardly need to make an ass out of you. You handle that one on your own just fine."
The smile on her face is wilder, more untamed, and far more dangerous than a rabid coyote. “I’ve answered all of your questions, Marshall."
“You haven’t, and you know it,” he says, aware his voice is rising in the small space of his car but not caring. “You always dodge the things that matter and fixate on the stupid details just to piss me off. And I never react, you know? I always just bite it back, swallow it down, let you get away with fucking murder just because you’re you, but I am sick of that and sick of you being so … so … you."
“Get off it, Marshall. I know you; you can’t actually be sick of me being who I am."
“You don’t know anything!” he shouts, slamming his foot on the accelerator without any warning. The car slides a bit in the building snow as it starts moving again, and he eases up immediately, not willing to crash his car just because Mary’s being insufferable.
“I know you love me, just like you hoped in your hopeless little toast."
He jerks on the steering wheel, turning them so sharply into her driveway that the car slides again. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my car."
“With pleasure.” She sketches a mocking bow from the driveway before slamming his door shut and turning her back on him. He slams the car into reverse and has to concentrate on driving calmly out of the driveway, down the blocks of her street, seething inside at her blatant mockery of his feelings. Like he didn’t know that his admission wasn’t going to win her to his side.
He realizes that he’s the one who doesn’t anything. Doesn’t know his partner, at least. For all that he can predict her reactions, her words, he doesn’t actually know her. The Mary he knew would have dodged and avoided ever acknowledging the admission in the toast, not bent the words into darts and - proving her skill at her favorite bar game - shot them straight into his heart. This Mary is a stranger to him, and he thinks he’d prefer not to know her at all.
His phone buzzes as he reaches the intersection with the highway. He glances at it while the light is red: Thanks for locking me out of my house in the snow, asswipe. He frowns in confusion, then pats his thigh. The lump in his pocket takes him by surprise, and he shifts in his seat enough to pull out Mary’s keyring. The keyring Bartender Billy had handed him from behind the bar when he showed up to collect his fri- his coworker.
The phone buzzes again, and he sighs as the light turns green, turning back to his phone instead of accelerating. Brandi gave Peter the spare key. I will shoot you in the balls if you don’t bring me my goddamn keys.
He grinds his teeth, aware that it’s not the first time tonight, and makes a slightly-illegal U-turn instead of the left turn towards his house.
They’re both at his house tonight, so don’t even try to think she’ll let me in if I just knock loud enough.
If I die from hypothermia, I will learn how to move things as a ghost just to shoot you in the balls.
“You’re more likely to die from alcohol poisoning,” he mutters at his phone, ignoring the twinge in his conscience that he hadn’t made sure someone would be there in case she actually did get alcohol poisoning. The snow’s coming harder now, and before long it’ll be impossible for anyone to be on the roads if she needed help.
I’m not above calling Stan to have him make it an order. Killing a Marshal is a federal offense, you know.
He screeches to a stop on the road in front of her house and turns his car off almost violently. The car door slams behind him as he stalks up the walkway to her house, not bothering to blink the falling snow from his eyes.
“You forget that I’m a decent person who doesn’t need orders from his boss to save even the worst of people from ending up a Darwin award. Don’t you dare try to make it out like I need orders or threats to bring someone like you your stupid keys back.” He yanks them out of his pocket and throws them at her.
She doesn’t catch them, which doesn’t surprise him with the amount of alcohol she must have had tonight to be this pointlessly cruel. She does fumble with them twice before managing to pick them up from the snow, which only makes him more angry. She knows as well as he does that this exact combination of alcohols turns her into a raging bitch, and still she drank it and then called him. Even if he reasons that the alcohol is making her say all this, he can’t ignore the fact that she is the one who chose to drink.
“Hurry up and get inside so you can’t claim I left you outside,” he spits at her as she drops the keys again trying to get them into the lock. “It’s too fucking cold to stand here watching you fail."
He’s surprised when she doesn’t punch him for that, because honestly, he deserves it. Instead, she lets her hair swing over her face as she picks up the keys and leaves it there as she aims for the lock again. Her fingers are still clumsy, and he finally notices how red they are without gloves. Still, it’s her own fault for taking so long to text him, for not making sure she had her keys before getting out of the car, for getting so damn wasted in the first place that he had to get off his couch. But he did go a step too far with his last comment, and she probably really can’t help not being able to unlock the door. He steps toward her, takes the keys from her hand - not rough, but not gently either - and unlocks and opens the door.
“Go warm up,” he says, concern and anger warring in him and coming out as a toneless order. “Frostbite."
“Billy called you because I told him to,” she says as she walks into the house, leaving the door open behind her. He steps in after her and slams the door with enough force to jar several clumps of insulation out of a nearby hole in the wall.
“And you couldn’t have just said that.” He follows her into the kitchen and pulls a glass out of her cupboard. “I assume you still won’t tell me why you told him to. That would be too much like-"
“Shut the hell up.” She hasn’t turned around, has a hand wrapped around the handle of the refrigerator but hasn’t opened it. “Just shut up, Marshall."
“Why?” he asks, suddenly feeling completely reckless. He fills the glass with water and almost slams it onto the counter beside her, sloshing no less than half of the water out and making him wonder how he didn’t at least crack the glass. “When’s the last time you shut up because I asked you to?"
“Don’t do this now,” she says, almost too quiet for him to hear.
“Oh, and when would be a better time? No. Talk now, while you’re drunk and mad enough to tell the truth, which might never happen again. I want an answer, and I know you won’t talk about this even if you remember it tomorrow, because I know you, whether I want to or not."
He’s expecting her to lash out again, to turn around with fire in her eyes and order him out of her house, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t visibly react in any way. After a long moment of silence, he growls under his breath and shoves the water closer to her.
“Fine. Don’t forget to hydrate. I’m not staying here to take care of your hangover.” He pauses for a reaction, any reaction, but refuses to stand there waiting for more than a moment. When nothing comes, he turns on his heel and heads back to the door. I wish for you nothing but a lifetime of happiness.
The snow is really starting to come down heavily now, and he ends up sliding on ice all the way from the door to his car. The road doesn’t look any better, but he gets in his car anyway and starts the engine. He has heat, and maybe if he waits, the roads will clear up enough to drive. If not, he has his emergency kit in the back seat. He can easily sleep in his car, much more easily than sleeping in a house with someone who can’t respect him enough to even answer a simple question.
He’s considering calling Stan to untangle all this, to calm down, when a tap on his window surprises him, and he turns to see Mary standing there, coat apparently abandoned inside. Her hair is still shielding half her face, but he can see her mouth move as her breath makes a cloud just outside the window. He sighs and rolls the window down.
“What?"
“Come back inside. I don’t want you to drive in this."
“I wasn’t planning to."
“I don’t want you to sleep in your car, either."
He sighs. “You know I’m well prepared. I promise not to die in front of your house."
“Marshall, please."
“I’m not going to-"
“I’m not asking you to take care of me!” she interrupts, turning abruptly towards him, hair swinging behind her shoulder, and he’s shocked into silence by the tears on her face. “I’m not asking you to do anything for me. I won’t, ever again, if you don’t want me to. I’m not your job. I get it, okay? I just want you to come inside and be more comfortable. I’m sorry you know me, but let me give you something worthwhile for once to make up for all your trouble."
He’s too busy trying to decipher her tone to respond immediately. No self-loathing, despite all the awful words she just said. No mockery or anger, for all the damage they’ve managed to do to each other tonight. Just a sort of resigned blankness.
“Please."
He has no idea the last time she said please twice in one day, much less in one conversation. He turns off his car and reaches into the backseat for his bag. She leads the way back up the path, deftly avoiding the ice patches in silence. He locks the door behind them and then hesitates, not sure where to sleep now that Brandi lives in the former guest room.
“Jinx’s room is clean,” she says in that same tone, and he nods. “Because I trusted you."
The past tense spears him through the heart, but it’s easier to ignore that. How come you didn’t tell me? Instead, he asks, “Don’t you trust your fiancé?"
“This is past his experience."
“First time for everything. There was a first time that I picked you up."
“That wasn’t tequila and rum."
He wonders what it says that neither of them is quite facing the other. “No, it wasn’t,” he replies, not sure what else to say.
“I can’t have him dump me the same day you find out he’s engaged to me. I thought maybe you’d be … safer."
“I’m not sorry I know you,” he answers, wondering why it doesn’t sound like an apology to his ears.
“Okay.” She moves finally, crosses the room to sit on the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, facing the other side of the couch. He’s not sure if the defensive posture is a warning or if the way she’s facing is an invitation, so he moves slowly to join her, watching her face the whole time, and she doesn’t show any sign of wanting to bolt when he sits.
“I was frustrated with myself, and I didn’t realize what you’d had to drink until it was too late. I wish I had found that out sooner; maybe we could have skipped this whole thing."
Mary shrugs, still not looking at him. “At least it’s out in the open now."
“Mary.” He reaches out, takes her hand. Left hand. Just like at breakfast, so long ago, but she’s not trying to yank it back now. “I’m not sorry I know you. I’m glad I do. You’re still the best friend I’ve ever had and could ever hope to have. I shouldn’t have said that. No excuse."
“Alcohol’s not an excuse either.” He knows her, and he’s glad he does, because that means he knows that this is her apology for what she’s said tonight.
“It could be a reason."
“You have plenty of reason, too, and then I…."
They sit in silence for several minutes, Marshall still holding her hand, Mary neither gripping him in return nor pulling away. Marshall eventually squeezes her fingers lightly and pulls back, stands from the couch. “Did you drink your water?” When she shakes her head, he goes into the kitchen, brings painkillers along with a freshly filled glass of water, one that hasn’t been practically thrown at her in anger. “Bedtime, Mer.” Something flickers in her eyes at the name, and he frowns slightly. “That okay?"
“Only from you.” She reaches toward him, and he pulls her up from the couch, steadies her for a moment. “Why wouldn’t it be?"
Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be? He shrugs. “Let me know if you need any help."
“I will.” She heads to her room, hesitates just outside the door, turns to face him. “Marshall?"
“Yeah?”
“Are we okay?” You happy?
Why wouldn’t I be? “I’m okay. We’re okay."
His heart lightens when she smiles at him. “I wish you a lifetime of happiness, too. And I can’t … I don’t know how to give that to you.” She shrugs, disappears into her room, shuts the door.
“I love you,” he murmurs to the quiet house before retiring to bed himself.
Author: pipisafoat
Written for: strwbrygrl77
Rating: Teen And Up
Prompt: Mary and Marshall trapped in a snowstorm
Credits: rainbowwizard1 for alpha reading, title assist, encouragement; firesign10 as always for the fantastic beta, comma wrangling, and delightful Darwin awards line
dear reader: I’m reshaping all of season 2 just to make this story be Exactly The Way I Want. Please assume now that at the end of Rubble With A Cause, Mary told Raph the truth about her job and they got engaged about the same time. Let’s Get It Ahn (minus the Raph moving subplot) comes directly after. Aguna Matatala has yet to happen. Jinx is still in alky lockup, as Brandi puts it, and Brandi/Peter is a thing at this point, like they are around One Night Stan and later. Just roll with it.
additional notes: I don’t know that I would formally attach this to any of my other stories as part of a solid series, but in my head, it comes after Though It’s Not Love and An Albuquerque Kidnapping, and it may or may not be related to and coming before the Icarus series. You do not have to read all of these to understand this. It stands on its own. But that’s how they all fit together in my head.
Read the story on AO3 or below the cut:
Marshall tosses the remote onto the cushion beside him, frowning at the now-dark television in frustration. It’s a sad day when even Star Trek can’t distract him, but he’s claiming extenuating circumstances. It’s not every day you toast to the love your life getting married to someone else.
He spent the entire day thinking of that toast, realizing it would fall to him as soon as the ring lodged on his finger. I hope you know that I love you. He thinks he played it off-the-cuff enough for Eleanor not to notice, but Stan can read Marshall as well as Marshall can read Mary. He’s not expecting Stan to ever bring it up, but knowing the older man knows … well, Stan’s Stan. He’s like a father to Marshall, with a little less history than his actual father, and realistically, he knows pretty much everything there is to know about Marshall. But if Mary knows, then he isn’t sure how fucked his life is now - and for the first time since he met her, he’s not sure if she knows something or not.
He glances at his laptop, wondering briefly if porn would distract him, depress him, or remind him of his witnesses. He glances at his bookcase, trying to decide if there exists a book Mary wouldn’t have a comment for; realizing that even if he could find one, he’d spend the whole time thinking about the fact that she wouldn’t have a comment, which really isn’t any better than thinking about whatever comment she’d have for another book. He glances back at the remote, pondering changing to a different show for something to occupy his brain - maybe a scientific sort of documentary? He glances up at the ceiling, wishing the fan were on despite the cold weather just so he would have something worth looking at.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when his phone rings.
“Marshall,” he says without looking at the screen.
“Hi, Mr. Mann,” an unfamiliar voice replies, and he pulls away from the phone to stare baffled at the caller ID - Mary Shannon. “This is Billy of Billy’s Long Bar over on San Mateo Boulevard."
“Of course,” Marshall says, mostly to himself. “Today of all days, of course."
“I can call a cab for her if I need to, Mr. Mann.” Billy sounds exactly as sympathetic as someone who has a bar named after them ought to, and Marshall suddenly wishes he were the drunk one, talking to someone like Billy.
He sighs. “No, no cab, that doesn’t really work for her. I doubt you could get her into the cab, no matter how strong you might be. I’m on my way.” He hangs up and looks back up at the ceiling. I hope you know that I love you. Idiot. She knows. She just doesn’t care any further than to use that fact to her advantage. Same as always.
As he climbs into his car, kicking a slight buildup of snow off his boots, Marshall suddenly realizes two things. The first is that Mary doesn’t get so drunk that someone else has to call him for a ride very often; the last time was after Jinx decided that living room sex was a good idea. The time before that, Jinx had just moved herself into Mary’s house. The first time one of Mary’s witnesses had to be relocated for gross breach of of the MOU. And, of course, the very first time, the time he realized they would be each other’s only friend, before she even knew they would be friendly - when a bartender called him during her second week on the job to say she couldn’t stop talking about how much she missed just shooting people and was now drinking in the owner’s office to keep her from scaring away all the other customers.
The second is that he might be her only friend, but there’s someone closer than that in town now. Two someones, if he counts Brandi, but he doesn’t know a single person who would trust Brandi in this situation. The point is, Mary’s engaged, and her fiancé really ought to be the one to drag her home drunk.
Raph and I are engaged. And then, later, I hope you know that I love you. Of course she’s drinking. She’s Mary. She’s beautiful and brilliant and badass and has shocking social skills. He flashes for a minute on How do you spell Magnusdottir? and has to snort as he backs out of his driveway. Make that no social skills. She’s engaged and her best friend just admitted that he loves her. Brandi would be a terrible person to talk to, and Mary doesn’t talk to Stan the way Marshall sometimes does, the way he knows Stan wishes she would. Alcohol is the only other support in her life. Of course she’s drinking. The real question is, why did Billy the Bartender call Marshall? Picked from her recent calls list as the most often called number? Mary told him to? And if the latter, is it from a habit she’s about to regret or for a reason?
He’s still wondering that when he apologizes to and thanks Billy, guides Mary towards his car, brushes lightly falling snow from her hair. He buckles her in despite her help, gets in his own seat, starts the car, then turns to her.
“Raph busy tonight?"
She stares at him for a long moment, and he wonders if she’s too drunk to follow a conversation. She’s being unusually quiet so far. Marshall studies her face for signs of nausea, overall unresponsiveness, any need to go to a hospital instead of her house. Finding none, he continues his stare in the hopes of intimidating her into answering. As though that ever worked on Mary. He sighs and gives up, reverses from his parking spot, heads to the road.
“Probably not,” she finally mumbles.
“You didn’t call him first?"
Another long silence, then: “No."
“Huh.” I hope you know that I love you. I didn’t want to have a moment like this. “I mean, I don’t mind helping out my best friend-"
“Only friend.”
“My only friend,” he corrects obligingly. The best friend I’ve ever had. Could ever hope to have. “Whatever you need. It just surprised me, that’s all."
“What, you think that just because I’m engaged you get out of the work of taking care of me?” There’s anger in her voice, her suddenly strong and loud and fast voice, and Marshall jerks in his seat.
“What?"
“Sorry, Marshall, but that’s still your job. You don’t get to quit just because I’m … whatever."
“And you don’t think it’s weird that you call me instead of the guy you’re getting married to.” The girl for whom no man will ever be good enough….
“Jesus, Marshall, we … I'm engaged, not dealing with 50 years of marital bliss. What’s your problem?”
He takes a deep breath, then another. Angry drunken Mary. Tequila, then rum. Don’t engage. She’ll throw up around 4 am. Don’t carry the fight to the next day. She remembers the anger but not the words. She apologizes with silent donuts two days later. She doesn’t usually mean what she says, at least not the way it sounds. He knows this Mary. He knows her, the same way he knows professional Mary and PTSD Mary and Jinx’s daughter Mary and Brandi’s sister Mary and I didn’t want to have a moment like this Mary and struggling to support two unappreciative adults Mary and actually likes a few kids Mary and every other part of Mary. She lives in him deeply enough that he understands the whys and the hows and the best ways to react, but--
“What’s your fucking problem, Marshall?” she challenges again, and he can feel his eyes narrow the slightest bit despite his best efforts.
“No problem."
“No problem,” she echoes with more disbelief than any human should be able to pack into two words.
He nods, slow and measured instead of the sharp jerk he’d really prefer in this moment. The light turns green, and he turns left.
“Don’t lie to me again."
Marshall very, very carefully does not grind his teeth at her hard tone, but Mary is the only person he knows who actually gets more observant with alcohol.
“Say it,” she orders, challenge clear in her tone again.
“Nothing to say."
“Say. It."
“Nothing to say,” he repeats, and then before he can stop himself, “You’re the one who needs to say something to me, or do you not believe in answering questions anymore?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her fist clench on her thigh, and he winces inwardly. There is nothing in this car for her to punch without breaking something. Maybe him, depending on where she lands the fist, but he knows she’d break every metacarpal before hitting another person. Knows it like he knows every other thing about her, including her response, and he barely refrains from speaking it along with her.
“I answer questions, which you can tell because I’m answering this one.” The fist slowly, carefully unclenches, fingers spreading over her thigh just as tense as a fist ever could be.
He knows better. He knows better. He knows- “Then tell me why you called me instead of Raph."
“I didn’t call you."
His jaw clenches. “Semantics."
“Truth."
“Tell me why Bartender Billy called me instead of Raph."
“I can’t tell you why someone else does what they do."
“Mary.” He turns onto her street.
“You’d have to ask him what his reasons were."
His fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and he can feel his shoulders rising. “I’m assuming his reason is that you told him who to call."
“You do know what they say about assuming, don’t you?"
Something in Marshall snaps, and he slaps the steering wheel hard enough to echo throughout the car, slamming on his brakes at the same time. “I hardly need to make an ass out of you. You handle that one on your own just fine."
The smile on her face is wilder, more untamed, and far more dangerous than a rabid coyote. “I’ve answered all of your questions, Marshall."
“You haven’t, and you know it,” he says, aware his voice is rising in the small space of his car but not caring. “You always dodge the things that matter and fixate on the stupid details just to piss me off. And I never react, you know? I always just bite it back, swallow it down, let you get away with fucking murder just because you’re you, but I am sick of that and sick of you being so … so … you."
“Get off it, Marshall. I know you; you can’t actually be sick of me being who I am."
“You don’t know anything!” he shouts, slamming his foot on the accelerator without any warning. The car slides a bit in the building snow as it starts moving again, and he eases up immediately, not willing to crash his car just because Mary’s being insufferable.
“I know you love me, just like you hoped in your hopeless little toast."
He jerks on the steering wheel, turning them so sharply into her driveway that the car slides again. “Get out. Get the fuck out of my car."
“With pleasure.” She sketches a mocking bow from the driveway before slamming his door shut and turning her back on him. He slams the car into reverse and has to concentrate on driving calmly out of the driveway, down the blocks of her street, seething inside at her blatant mockery of his feelings. Like he didn’t know that his admission wasn’t going to win her to his side.
He realizes that he’s the one who doesn’t anything. Doesn’t know his partner, at least. For all that he can predict her reactions, her words, he doesn’t actually know her. The Mary he knew would have dodged and avoided ever acknowledging the admission in the toast, not bent the words into darts and - proving her skill at her favorite bar game - shot them straight into his heart. This Mary is a stranger to him, and he thinks he’d prefer not to know her at all.
His phone buzzes as he reaches the intersection with the highway. He glances at it while the light is red: Thanks for locking me out of my house in the snow, asswipe. He frowns in confusion, then pats his thigh. The lump in his pocket takes him by surprise, and he shifts in his seat enough to pull out Mary’s keyring. The keyring Bartender Billy had handed him from behind the bar when he showed up to collect his fri- his coworker.
The phone buzzes again, and he sighs as the light turns green, turning back to his phone instead of accelerating. Brandi gave Peter the spare key. I will shoot you in the balls if you don’t bring me my goddamn keys.
He grinds his teeth, aware that it’s not the first time tonight, and makes a slightly-illegal U-turn instead of the left turn towards his house.
They’re both at his house tonight, so don’t even try to think she’ll let me in if I just knock loud enough.
If I die from hypothermia, I will learn how to move things as a ghost just to shoot you in the balls.
“You’re more likely to die from alcohol poisoning,” he mutters at his phone, ignoring the twinge in his conscience that he hadn’t made sure someone would be there in case she actually did get alcohol poisoning. The snow’s coming harder now, and before long it’ll be impossible for anyone to be on the roads if she needed help.
I’m not above calling Stan to have him make it an order. Killing a Marshal is a federal offense, you know.
He screeches to a stop on the road in front of her house and turns his car off almost violently. The car door slams behind him as he stalks up the walkway to her house, not bothering to blink the falling snow from his eyes.
“You forget that I’m a decent person who doesn’t need orders from his boss to save even the worst of people from ending up a Darwin award. Don’t you dare try to make it out like I need orders or threats to bring someone like you your stupid keys back.” He yanks them out of his pocket and throws them at her.
She doesn’t catch them, which doesn’t surprise him with the amount of alcohol she must have had tonight to be this pointlessly cruel. She does fumble with them twice before managing to pick them up from the snow, which only makes him more angry. She knows as well as he does that this exact combination of alcohols turns her into a raging bitch, and still she drank it and then called him. Even if he reasons that the alcohol is making her say all this, he can’t ignore the fact that she is the one who chose to drink.
“Hurry up and get inside so you can’t claim I left you outside,” he spits at her as she drops the keys again trying to get them into the lock. “It’s too fucking cold to stand here watching you fail."
He’s surprised when she doesn’t punch him for that, because honestly, he deserves it. Instead, she lets her hair swing over her face as she picks up the keys and leaves it there as she aims for the lock again. Her fingers are still clumsy, and he finally notices how red they are without gloves. Still, it’s her own fault for taking so long to text him, for not making sure she had her keys before getting out of the car, for getting so damn wasted in the first place that he had to get off his couch. But he did go a step too far with his last comment, and she probably really can’t help not being able to unlock the door. He steps toward her, takes the keys from her hand - not rough, but not gently either - and unlocks and opens the door.
“Go warm up,” he says, concern and anger warring in him and coming out as a toneless order. “Frostbite."
“Billy called you because I told him to,” she says as she walks into the house, leaving the door open behind her. He steps in after her and slams the door with enough force to jar several clumps of insulation out of a nearby hole in the wall.
“And you couldn’t have just said that.” He follows her into the kitchen and pulls a glass out of her cupboard. “I assume you still won’t tell me why you told him to. That would be too much like-"
“Shut the hell up.” She hasn’t turned around, has a hand wrapped around the handle of the refrigerator but hasn’t opened it. “Just shut up, Marshall."
“Why?” he asks, suddenly feeling completely reckless. He fills the glass with water and almost slams it onto the counter beside her, sloshing no less than half of the water out and making him wonder how he didn’t at least crack the glass. “When’s the last time you shut up because I asked you to?"
“Don’t do this now,” she says, almost too quiet for him to hear.
“Oh, and when would be a better time? No. Talk now, while you’re drunk and mad enough to tell the truth, which might never happen again. I want an answer, and I know you won’t talk about this even if you remember it tomorrow, because I know you, whether I want to or not."
He’s expecting her to lash out again, to turn around with fire in her eyes and order him out of her house, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t visibly react in any way. After a long moment of silence, he growls under his breath and shoves the water closer to her.
“Fine. Don’t forget to hydrate. I’m not staying here to take care of your hangover.” He pauses for a reaction, any reaction, but refuses to stand there waiting for more than a moment. When nothing comes, he turns on his heel and heads back to the door. I wish for you nothing but a lifetime of happiness.
The snow is really starting to come down heavily now, and he ends up sliding on ice all the way from the door to his car. The road doesn’t look any better, but he gets in his car anyway and starts the engine. He has heat, and maybe if he waits, the roads will clear up enough to drive. If not, he has his emergency kit in the back seat. He can easily sleep in his car, much more easily than sleeping in a house with someone who can’t respect him enough to even answer a simple question.
He’s considering calling Stan to untangle all this, to calm down, when a tap on his window surprises him, and he turns to see Mary standing there, coat apparently abandoned inside. Her hair is still shielding half her face, but he can see her mouth move as her breath makes a cloud just outside the window. He sighs and rolls the window down.
“What?"
“Come back inside. I don’t want you to drive in this."
“I wasn’t planning to."
“I don’t want you to sleep in your car, either."
He sighs. “You know I’m well prepared. I promise not to die in front of your house."
“Marshall, please."
“I’m not going to-"
“I’m not asking you to take care of me!” she interrupts, turning abruptly towards him, hair swinging behind her shoulder, and he’s shocked into silence by the tears on her face. “I’m not asking you to do anything for me. I won’t, ever again, if you don’t want me to. I’m not your job. I get it, okay? I just want you to come inside and be more comfortable. I’m sorry you know me, but let me give you something worthwhile for once to make up for all your trouble."
He’s too busy trying to decipher her tone to respond immediately. No self-loathing, despite all the awful words she just said. No mockery or anger, for all the damage they’ve managed to do to each other tonight. Just a sort of resigned blankness.
“Please."
He has no idea the last time she said please twice in one day, much less in one conversation. He turns off his car and reaches into the backseat for his bag. She leads the way back up the path, deftly avoiding the ice patches in silence. He locks the door behind them and then hesitates, not sure where to sleep now that Brandi lives in the former guest room.
“Jinx’s room is clean,” she says in that same tone, and he nods. “Because I trusted you."
The past tense spears him through the heart, but it’s easier to ignore that. How come you didn’t tell me? Instead, he asks, “Don’t you trust your fiancé?"
“This is past his experience."
“First time for everything. There was a first time that I picked you up."
“That wasn’t tequila and rum."
He wonders what it says that neither of them is quite facing the other. “No, it wasn’t,” he replies, not sure what else to say.
“I can’t have him dump me the same day you find out he’s engaged to me. I thought maybe you’d be … safer."
“I’m not sorry I know you,” he answers, wondering why it doesn’t sound like an apology to his ears.
“Okay.” She moves finally, crosses the room to sit on the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, facing the other side of the couch. He’s not sure if the defensive posture is a warning or if the way she’s facing is an invitation, so he moves slowly to join her, watching her face the whole time, and she doesn’t show any sign of wanting to bolt when he sits.
“I was frustrated with myself, and I didn’t realize what you’d had to drink until it was too late. I wish I had found that out sooner; maybe we could have skipped this whole thing."
Mary shrugs, still not looking at him. “At least it’s out in the open now."
“Mary.” He reaches out, takes her hand. Left hand. Just like at breakfast, so long ago, but she’s not trying to yank it back now. “I’m not sorry I know you. I’m glad I do. You’re still the best friend I’ve ever had and could ever hope to have. I shouldn’t have said that. No excuse."
“Alcohol’s not an excuse either.” He knows her, and he’s glad he does, because that means he knows that this is her apology for what she’s said tonight.
“It could be a reason."
“You have plenty of reason, too, and then I…."
They sit in silence for several minutes, Marshall still holding her hand, Mary neither gripping him in return nor pulling away. Marshall eventually squeezes her fingers lightly and pulls back, stands from the couch. “Did you drink your water?” When she shakes her head, he goes into the kitchen, brings painkillers along with a freshly filled glass of water, one that hasn’t been practically thrown at her in anger. “Bedtime, Mer.” Something flickers in her eyes at the name, and he frowns slightly. “That okay?"
“Only from you.” She reaches toward him, and he pulls her up from the couch, steadies her for a moment. “Why wouldn’t it be?"
Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be? He shrugs. “Let me know if you need any help."
“I will.” She heads to her room, hesitates just outside the door, turns to face him. “Marshall?"
“Yeah?”
“Are we okay?” You happy?
Why wouldn’t I be? “I’m okay. We’re okay."
His heart lightens when she smiles at him. “I wish you a lifetime of happiness, too. And I can’t … I don’t know how to give that to you.” She shrugs, disappears into her room, shuts the door.
“I love you,” he murmurs to the quiet house before retiring to bed himself.