Work Text:
What's Wrong with Mary?
The afternoon sun reflected off the glass door as Marshall carded himself into the quiet WITSEC office. His obstreperous sometimes obnoxious and often profane partner wasn't at her desk. What’s she doing in Stan's office? Mary was facing Stan who was sitting behind his desk. She wasn’t standing and shouting, as she usually did when in the Chief’s office. Even stranger, Stan was smiling. Stan was smiling at Mary.
Although Stan was frequently pleased with the outcome of some of Mary's escapades, he usually wasn't happy while they were happening. If he even knew. Mary must have pulled off something. Something she had done without him. Without her partner. She should have told him. Stan counted on him keeping her in line. Marshall was supposed to keep Stan in the loop, not the other way around.
Marshall's concern turned to irritation then escalated.What did she do? When did she stop talking to him. Actually she seldom ‘talked’ to him. She complained, whined and gave orders. She was his partner and yet for the past two weeks, hell, the past two months if he was honest, he had no idea what she had been doing, or which witnesses she visited. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time she mentioned Jinx or Brandi.
Glancing back at Stan's office as his own computer booted up, Marshall saw Mary stand and head to her desk quietly closing the door behind her. Stan returned to his cluttered desk, still smiling. The hairs on the back of Marshall's neck stood straight. Mary closed doors with a slam. Mary was a whirlwind, always in motion, debris hitting innocent bystanders while she went on her way without noticing the havoc she caused.
"Hey," Marshall greeted her. He always approached Mary cautiously. He kept out of range of her pointy elbows, careful to keep his desk between them. That buffer zone had saved him from many a bruise. "Where have you been? I didn't see you this morning. I brought you coffee."
Seated at her desk, she concentrated on her computer screen. "Coffee?” she muttered to the screen. Then clearing her throat, “Umm,” she equivocated. “Sorry. I . . . I ..uh..went on witness visits right from home." She glanced his way, never looking him in the eye and shrugged, "You know, the usual."
Mary's calm considered response turned Marshall’s irritation to concern. He expected a 'mind your own business, what’s it to you numnutz.' not this.
Mary was calm. Mary was being polite. Mary said she was sorry. Polite. Oh my God. Something traumatic happened.
Mentally scrambling, Marshall tried to appear calm as he strode the few feet to Stan's office. As he slammed the door shut, he expelled a breath, clearly upset. Stan took in the distraught marshal.
"Marshall, what?" Both Inspectors in his office in the same day?
"Something bad happened to Mary." He stated baldly.
Stan looked at Mary quietly working at her desk; he ran his thumb over the edges of her recent witness visit reports, then at Marshall. Marshall must have a reason for what seemed to Stan an odd statement. "What makes you think that?"
"Just look at the evidence.” Marshall paused, running his fingers through his hair. On a normal day, Marshall’s hair was sacrosanct. untouched and untouchable. “Has she been yelling? Has she teased me about my new hobbies? Has she pissed off ABQPD?"
Stan looked thoughtful. "No. Mary hasn't pissed off any law enforcement agencies, local, state or federal." Stan couldn't figure what Marshall was trying to say. Why would Marshall think something bad had happened? Stan realized that the office had been preternaturally quiet the last few weeks. No spitball fights, no teasing. No bets. No signing the song. Mary had teased Marshall their entire partnership -- when she wasn't defending him to Stan and other higher ups. Marshall never witnessed her defense of him, but surely he must know.
Stan looked at his worried Inspector. "Mary has been on her best behavior, as far as I can tell. As a matter of fact she just completed her recertification, early."
He pushed a slip of paper with Mary's shooting scores toward Marshall.
"Early?" Marshall queried, and then looked at the slip of paper. "I have to nag her for months to get her to recertify." Marshall looked at the paper. "Are these her latest scores?" As her partner, he was entitled to know that Mary passed all sections of certification, but he'd never seen her actual shooting score sheet before. Stan looked on with a proud grin, as if his own child had pulled off a particularly tricky event successfully.
"I know Mary is a good shot, but these are better than her last cert."
Pointing to the top of the scoring sheet Stan noted “That's not her dominant hand."
"Wow.” Marshall whistled. “Her scores are almost as good as mine."
"Check the shotgun scores." Stan suggested. "She scored higher than you. So tell me again, why do you think something bad happened to Mary?"
"Stan,” Marshall implored. “When was the last time Mary was civil to me, to you, to her witnesses?"
Stan rubbed his forehead, inching up to his bald spot, a distant look in his eyes. Suddenly, a spark of recognition gleamed. "After she was kidnapped and pistol whipped by Spanky and his men."
"Exactly."
Now that he understood the evidence, Stan needed more. "What do you think happened? You work with her every day."
"That's just it. The last few weeks she's gone on witness visits while I'm tied up in the office. She's never available for a drink after work. I haven't seen her at Two Fools in over a month. You know she doesn't keep liquor in the house because of Jinx."
"Maybe she's found a new watering hole."
"Maybe, but why would she start being polite?” he questioned. “She's doing all her own intake forms and she hasn't asked me to help with a witness visit report in over a month."
"Really? Because I have them right here." Stan handed Marshall a stack of neatly stapled typed multipage detailed reports on the status of four of Mary's most troublesome witnesses. "These look just like all the other ones. No typos. No grammar errors. Brief but detailed and just the facts."
Taking the top set of papers, Marshall turned the pages so he could read the name of the witness. When he did, he thrust the papers at Stan and exploded. "You let her go see Mayhem Mike, alone?"
"It's Mary. I didn't let her do anything. I didn't know she was going till I saw that report."
Stan continued rubbing his scalp. "This is bad, isn't it?"
"Yes," Marshall agreed emphatically. "Can you get Shelley to talk to her? If Mary is being polite she might not even yell at Shelley."
"I’ll call Dr. Finkel." Stan leafed through the many small papers on his desk, looking for her phone number.
Marshall ran a hand though his hair and turned, checking on his partner. She was still working at her desk. Quietly. Quietly leaving Stan’s office, he approached slowly. Stopping in front of her desk, Marshall tried a friendly greeting. "Hey Mare." He waited for her to look up, but she continued writing. "How about lunch? I'm buying." Free food always got her attention.
"Uh,” she looked up finally noticing her partner. She gave him a tight smile. “Thanks. You know Marshall, you always buy. It should be my turn. Maybe tomorrow? I had lunch before coming to the office."
Before he could return to his desk, she said, "Wait." Mary leaned down and opened her desk drawer and removed a plastic bag. "These are yours. Marie baked them. I told her I'd make sure you got them."
If Mary’s smile wasn’t already sounding an alarm, the fact that she was willing to share home baked goods intensified his concern. Marshall examined the quart sized baggie filled with chocolaty goodness. Marie's brownies were to die for. Maybe that was Mary's plan - to do him in with poisoned baked goods.
Opening the bag, Marshall asked hesitantly, "Did you try them."
"Yeah," she sighed. "I ate one at Marie's and made sure she knew how much I enjoyed it."
Remembering her orgasmic relationship with chocolate of any kind brought a vivid memory of Mary, head back, moaning over the last batch of Marie's brownies. Marshall hadn't gotten a crumb of those, but watching Mary had been better than any x-rated movie he'd ever seen. He hadn't missed the brownies.
Marshall swallowed nervously. Who was this woman and what had she done with his partner? Traumatic flashbacks?. That was the only reason she would share Marie’s brownies. Something awful had happened. Drastic measures were required.
"Since you already had lunch, come to my house for dinner. I'll make my mom's BBQ ribs and I've got a bottle of whiskey that I can't drink by myself."
Mary looked at him, narrowing her eyes. "Don’t you have a date or dance class or something tonight?”
Mary hadn’t teased him about his hobbies in weeks. Marshall realized she was giving him time and space for a life outside WITSEC, outside of her. It was what friends did. Despite that it didn’t sit well with Marshall. This wasn’t Mary. This wasn’t his Mary.
“Not tonight. It’s Thursday. Dance class is Friday.”
Mary raised her arm and flipped her hand at him. “No Marshall, you don’t need to. . . Wait am I the guinea pig for something you want to serve Abigail?”
“Maybe. You coming?” Whatever it took to get her to his place.
“My fridge is empty. Might as well. Just to help you out,” she added, gathering her things.
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Licking her fingers after a second serving of ribs Mary muttered, “If I knew you could make ribs like this I would have chained you to the grill years ago.”
Marshall hadn’t actually heard what she said. His eyes were glued to the suggestive act Mary was committing by licking her sauce laden fingers. With effort, he gulped and looked away. Good thing I’m wearing an apron.
Noticing her chatterbox partner wasn’t eating and wasn’t talking, Mary asked, “Have I got sauce somewhere? Whatcha staring at?” She bit her tongue before she added numnutz to that sentence. Marshall looked distracted. She ignored him and looked longingly at the empty serving plate, lifting the tumbler of whiskey.
Marshall didn’t answer right away. Finally wrenching his attention from her fingers he focused on a series of bruises revealed when the sleeve of the shirt had slipped down to her elbow as she raised her glass.
“Mare?” He pointed to the black and blue marks. “How did you get that?”
Embarrassed, Mary shoved the sleeve down and ducked her head. She mumbled something Marshall couldn’t understand. Before she could cover the black and blue marks on her arm, he squatted by her side. Gently he asked “What happened?”
When she put her head down, covering her face with her hair, he continued. “You’re my partner. I should have been there to protect you, to make sure that didn’t happen.”
“Protect me from what? Protect me from the pans falling out of my cupboard?” It was what she wanted him to believe.
Marshall took her hand. Lifting it to reveal more bruises. “Mare, these didn’t come from any cookware. I can see fingerprints. Who did this? Who grabbed you?”
Maybe this was the reason for her altered behavior. If someone grabbed her, as she had been grabbed before, it could have triggered the flashback. The actual event had resulted in the same courteous behavior she was exhibiting now.
She pulled her hand out of his grasp.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“It is something. Someone got close enough to my partner to bruise her.” Before she could respond he took her other hand and moved the sleeve up. A matched set of bruises greeted his dismayed eyes.
“Who was he? Who did this?” Marshall’s voice was low and demanding. It took Mary back to the basement, back to her kidnapping and Spanky. Seeing her zone out, he stopped and sat back on his heels. Then she whimpered. That proved it. Something was wrong with Mary. After a sudden inhale, the spark of Mary, his Mary, returned. Her fact set stoically, a flash of fire appeared in her gaze. She shook him off and stared into his eyes.
“It’s nothing,” she repeated, emphasizing each syllable. Marshall shook his head.
Rolling her eyes, she spoke quickly. “Okay, okay. Here’s what happened.”
She knew Marshall wouldn’t give up. An abridged version of the truth would get him off her back. “A witness said he was having trouble with the washer and asked me to go to the laundry room in the basement. He grabbed me. I broke his nose and threw him down. I could barely hear his apology. Guess he had trouble talking with my boot on his neck.” She smirked, and his heart soared. She was back.
She tossed her napkin on the table. “Thanks for dinner. I gotta go.”