Tyger, Tyger
Title: Tyger, Tyger
Author: mm_thibault
Rating: NC-17 (not this chapter but the coming chapters)
Spoilers: Season 3 with drabbles of other seasons, too
Summary: Marshall meets an interesting woman who changes up his whole life, and who will lead him to find the love of his life, or at least, act on it.
Pairing: Mary/Marshall
Shoutout: To Bujyo for her endless help and putting up with Keith Richards
Chapter 1-But Not For Me
“They’re writing songs of love
But not for me
A lucky star’s above
But not for me
With love to lead the way
I’ve found more clouds of gray
Than any Russian play could guarantee…”-George Gershwin, and sung by just about everybody of note.
Marshall Mann liked this bar. Just off the lobby of one of the few non-chain luxe hotels in the area, it was all dark wood paneling and red leather, right down to the jazz combo onstage doing old instrumental standards. He didn’t come here often, just when he needed a confab with Johnny Walker-Green and some time out of his head.
He sat down and ordered his two fingers of whiskey, neat, and opened his book of plays. Sartre was always a venue of comfort when his thoughts got turbulent, especially Huis Clos. And if it got any more turbulent than all but admitting his love to Mary and having her walk out the door and into the arms of that jackass Faber, well, he didn’t want to see it. They’d been through so much together, and she just turned and fled. Maybe he’d been too forward, maybe it had been too much, too soon… Maybe, maybe, maybe… too much maybe and not enough closure.
The time marched on relentlessly through the evening, at least judging by the candle burning down in the little glass ball in front of him, long enough for him to order his second drink, unbutton and roll up the sleeves on his shirt and for the French words in front of him to swim in front of him. The alcohol had settled his nerves, but he was still on edge. The instant replay loop of this afternoon dogged him relentlessly. It was not every day that he just went for it, bared his soul for all the world to see. And she’d just… walked away. Out the door, but not out of his life. They’d be back on Monday, with Operation Falcon in full swing.
Normally, he and his partner viewed this as a tiny vacation. A week with no witness responsibilities, just back-to-basics hunting down bad guys and putting them away. He couldn’t even begin to contemplate how awkward Monday would be. Perhaps if he came armed with doughnuts….
“So, what drives a man like you to drink?”
The smoky, southern-tinged voice was so soft, that Marshall had to look up from his book to be sure that he’d really heard it at all. He was immediately rewarded with inquisitive eyes on him, the color of fine Kentucky bourbon. The eyes were the first of many pleasant discoveries as he looked over the woman who’d taken up a spot next to him at the bar. She’d slid her book onto the bar behind her, also in French, he noticed, and leaned back against the bar on both elbows.
In all black, from her form-fitting jacket that covered a pin-up worthy rack, racing down some lethal curves, right down to her tall dress boots that made her his height, easily six feet and some change, she was like a bronze statue, elegantly still except for her expressive eyes. A million and one questions flooded his mind, but he went with the most obvious: “A man like me?” He’d never been so glad in his life that his voice didn’t shake.
Her full red lips pulled back into a sensuous grin as she made eye contact over her shoulder with the barkeep. “Yeah. Good looking, obviously intelligent,” she reached out and tapped the book of Sartre’s plays with a stylishly manicured nail, open in front of him, “and armed.”
He blinked once, nervously, at her last comment. He watched as her eyes flickered briefly down to his ankle and he moved to adjust the leg of his jeans so as to be a bit more discreet. Carrying in public wasn’t illegal at all, but still, there was no need to advertise. He didn’t wear his badge in public unless he had to, and this wasn’t one of those times. “I see. And do you make a habit of coming up to strange, armed men in bars late at night?”
“Only those who look lost and a bit forlorn, cher.” The bartender came up then and she ordered a lemondrop martini with no gin and another round of scotch for him, on her room tab. Then she undulated up onto the stool next to his, still facing out into the room.
“Thank you for the drink.” Marshall looked back down at his book, not wanting her to see how dead-to-rights she had him. If it was that obvious to a stranger, why couldn’t Mare--? Nevermind, not an issue he wanted to discuss tonight. Just to see if she’d bite, he decided on the whimsical approach. “What if I were a hit man?”
The woman shifted around on the barstool so that she faced him instead of everything but. He could see the outline of a double shoulder holster beneath the fabric of her coat. Apparently he wasn’t the only one armed, which was good info to have. She looked him in the face, seemingly studying him, as she removed her wallet from her back pocket and slid a five across the bar to the bartender. It was a masculine gesture that she made look surprisingly hot. She reached for her beverage, removed the twist of lemon rind, and set it on a napkin. “Are you?” She didn’t look at him as she asked but she didn’t seem alarmed in the slightest.
He blinked for a moment, deciding how to respond. Everything about this interaction felt new and a bit electric. The repartee and banter on this level was something he’d missed, arousing really. “Maybe. Maybe you’re my target.”
Her laugh was incredibly sexy, low and throaty. She sipped her martini and licked the sugar from her lips in a movement that made the air rush from his lungs. “Well, then I suppose you and I have better things we could be doing than making time in the lobby of a hotel.”
That was not at all the response he’d expected. He sat back in his chair and turned her way. His curiosity got the better of him, leading him to ask, “Such as?”
“Such as renegotiating your fee. I can guarantee that I can pay much better than anyone who wants me dead. And if you are a hitman, you aren’t tied to any loyalty except that of the amount of rag paper crossing your palm.”
The uncomfortable feeling that she’d had some dealings with this caused him to change tact. He reached over and touched her hand, bringing her amber eyes to his blue ones. “Suppose I couldn’t be bought, what then?”
She traced a finger over her bottom lip, a motion his eyes couldn’t help but follow, and hummed as though she were giving it more thought. “Were that truly the case, I have to say, that fact greatly diminishes your chances of scoring with me tonight.”
Marshall inhaled his mouthful of scotch, his lungs full of liquid fire. He erupted in a coughing fit so profound, that she had to slap him on the back and summon him a glass of water. The scent of oak and oily pine, in addition to the burn of the alcohol would be in his head for days. When he’d finally settled down, he couldn’t decide if he should be mortified or flattered. “Don’t do that again.”
Her grin was kind and unrepentant. “Sorry.” She sipped her drink in quiet contemplation. “I take it, then, you’re not a hitman?”
Of all the things he could have been in this world, that was far from it, but what he was he couldn’t tell her about, so he answered, “Um, no. I’m not.”
“Fair enough, cher. So I return to my previous question, which you so deftly avoided: what drives a man like you to drink?”
Marshall watched her over the rim of his glass as he sipped his drink. He liked her tenacity. Hell, there was a lot about this woman he was starting to like, including the fit of her jeans and the tightness of her shirt beneath her jacket. “How do you know I’ve been driven?” Answering her question with a question was the classic evasion that she’d already called him on once, but he still wasn’t sure where she was going with all of this.
“Is that a question you really want an answer to, cher? Because, me, I’ll tell you, but I wouldn’t want you to think badly of me for it.”
Oh, thrust and parry. Marshall took a napkin from the bar and closed it in the book to hold his place, then he turned to face her more fully. “It is.”
She shrugged and looked around, not making eye contact with him while she spoke. “You’re not a regular. You know what you drink, but your demeanor and stance say that it’s not something you do often. The bartender is generically friendly, not like he would be if you were here often. You’re actively reading a book, not just for effect, which tells me you’re not here for the camaraderie of drinking in a bar, more the atmosphere and the otherness. A way to tell yourself you’re not drinking alone, exactly, even if that’s truly what you’re doing. Now, if I had to guess, it’s a woman, but that’s just speculation on my part.”
She delivered the profile with such chilling clinical accuracy in that gentle southern lilt; he had to fight his first reaction, which was to back up away from her. She had cut him right to the core, almost instantly. How long had she been watching him? “Who are you?”
“Eh bien, cher, c’est une chose trés…” she looked back towards the door and then over to the stage where the jazz combo was wrapping up their set, “compliquée.” She signaled the bartender for another martini.
Even though he’d been drinking, her answer, tossed off so nonchalantly, unnerved him and he found himself mentally checking off paths of egress should this encounter go sideways. “Complicated, how?”
She laughed again, and licked her lips. “Not in that existential ‘who am I, really?’ sense, rather, there are things in my life I don’t discuss.”
A sobering thought occurred to him. “Are you a hitman, er, woman? Assassin?”
That merited a full laugh that had her rocking in her chair. “Mais non, cher. Not in the slightest. My name, however, is Lily, but most everyone calls me TL.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Teal? Like the color?”
TL chuckled ruefully as she sipped her drink and shook her head. “Uh no, as in my initials. Tango Lima.”
“Oooh.” His brain was churning this over at light speed. He filed away her use of the military alphabet to mull over later. She wasn’t the only one who could profile. “And your name is Lily? Is your first name really Tiger?” What as it with him and the exotic animals?
She downed the rest of her martini in one gulp. “It’s TigerLily, actually. The product of my parents’ fanciful imaginations. The portmanteau of the damned.”
That was an image that made him laugh. “Alright then. I’m Marshall.” Clearly last names were optional tonight, so he went with it. He’d never been picked up in a bar before, most women found his reading material a little obscure at best, and he wasn’t usually one for clubbing. In short, he wasn’t sure how to proceed, or if she was even really hitting on him or just flirting to pass the time.
She smiled and shook his hand. It was the first physical contact between them and it was like completing a circuit. He saw the awareness flash in her golden eyes, and the way she raked her teeth across her full bottom lip. “Nice to meet you, Marshall. I admit, however, I am still curious.”
Marshall took the last of his scotch in one swig, and heaved a sigh. She was not going to relent until she had an answer. He simply had no intention of giving her one. He’d been open and vulnerable with a woman enough today to last him for a long while. “Why do you need to know so badly?” he asked her softly.
TL climbed down off the barstool and stretched her arms over her head, giving him ample time to see the two compact, double stack semi-automatic pistols under her jacket nestled comfortably next to her bountiful assets. When she finished she leaned in close to his ear and placed a warm hand on the bare skin of his arm, he felt a shimmer of sparks sizzle through him. “Because I figure if someone is as lost as you appear to be, it’s only right to offer you a possible way out of the darkness.”
Marshall turned and looked her in the eyes. It was disconcerting how closely their bronze color matched her skin tone, especially considering her jet black hair. She was like a katsina doll only much more dangerous. She stayed close for a moment, close enough that he felt her breath against his lips and the lemony scent of her drink filled his head. Then she moved back to grab her book, and the only thing that prevented her from leaving was his hand over hers on his arm. He turned to the bartender. “Check please.”