Disclaimer: I don't own IPS, or else it would clearly be a high-school drama. ;P

Author's Note: I remind you that this fic is rated M, and I'm making use of that. Maybe y'all weren't given to having angst-sex as teenagers when times were tough, but it's been known to happen, and it's happening here. Then we'll spend some time in Seth-town, because he's been talking to me a lot lately, and you might need a kleenex for that part because I know I did. Enjoy.

Fish Out of Water

Chapter 20

"Marshall," Mary whimpered, "don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make promises you can't keep."

"Who says I can't keep it?" he asked softly.

"You can't do this to me. You know you have to leave, so please, please don't do this to me." Her voice shook as her heart plunged to new depths; she had thought she could cry no more, but she couldn't take false promises on top of everything else that had happened, on top of losing her sister.

"Mary, no," he whispered. "I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't promise I'd stay unless I was willing to make it happen."

"You have to go. There's more for you than this…" she gestured helplessly around her.

Marshall knew she meant more than the room in which they sat, more than those precious few belongings that she and her sister shared. She meant everything she had ever known, which might as well have been that room and those things for as small as her world was. Small, and oh-so-bitter, that life; every hand outstretched for help slapped away or bitten until it learned not to reach for anything.

She could not allow herself to reach for him, and so he reached for her instead, pulling her into a tight embrace. He would not allow her to pull back this time, at least not until he knew for sure that she didn't want him… and he growing more and more certain that she did.

Mary shivered in his grip, the sense of captivity alien and frightening and strangely appealing; she found it was something she wanted, as much as she didn't want to want it. Another feeling burst through the heavy blanket of anguish that had been laid over her when Brandi was taken away; it coursed through her like a fire raging out of control, and she gave herself over to it.

Her lips were pressed to his before he knew what was happening. She kissed him insistently, her hands wandering like they were lost. He let his hands slide down her arms to hers, stopping them in place on his chest.

"Mary…" he breathed, "are you sure?"

"I need you, Marshall," she whispered pleadingly. "I need to feel anything but this. I need to know that you… that you want me."

Marshall hugged her tightly to him again. "How could you think I don't want you? I've done nothing but want you since we met."

"Then show me," she demanded. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his once more.

He let himself kiss her back, knew she wouldn't be asking for this if she didn't need it, need him, and in truth, he needed her as well. Their shared despair over Brandi had brought them to this point; in a world filled with people, they were mutually alone and desperately needed that connection to one another.

Her hands worked the buttons of his shirt as he drew her dress's zipper down; momentarily, she moved on to his pants as he slid the dress from her shoulders. She paused for a moment, reaching back to undo her bra and discard it, baring her breasts to him as he slid out of his shirt. As soon as his hands were free, they cupped her breasts, thumbs grazing stiffened nipples, and she moaned softly as he leaned forward and took one into his mouth.

Her panties emerged from beneath the skirt of her dress and were cast aside; once more, she set about releasing his now-straining erection, a task of which she made short work. All at once her hands were on him, stroking him clumsily but it still felt so much more than good, and he uttered a throaty groan with her nipple still in his mouth. He moved to suck the other one, leaving the first nearly as red as her dress instead of its usual shade of pink.

There was a small tearing sound, and he felt her roll a condom over him; he jerked slightly in her hand, an involuntary reaction to his arousal. She lay back and he followed, his hands under her dress and pushing up the skirt until he could find his way, and then he was pushing into her, exquisite even with the condom in place, exactly that for which he'd ached for so long. He gave a soft moan and closed his eyes as he filled her, the dress bunched around her midsection between them, and he turned his head to suckle at her throat.

Mary sucked in a breath that gave way to a ragged moan; this was far different from the first time, less painful but so much more urgent. She needed him, and he had given, and the feeling of him inside her was unbearably good. He thrust into her again and she moved her hips against him, meeting his efforts and encouraging him to show the aggression that she needed. The fabric of her dress rustled and bounced as he complied, surging into her repeatedly until she went over the edge. She cried out and trembled as she came, a night of emotional chaos and frustration exploding in a torrent of physical ecstasy. A moment later, Marshall tensed and let out a low groan that seemed to claw its way up his throat, collapsing on top of her as he pulsed within her depths.

Marshall's breath came raggedly in her ear as he rolled slightly to the side, his weight comforting without crushing as he slipped from her. His arms were around her again, holding her gently as thought she was some fragile thing that might come apart if handled too roughly, and Mary was forced to admit to herself that she was, at the moment, exactly that. His kind touch, his delicate handling of her that she was constantly forcing herself to believe she would never need was now desperately necessary; these were needs that had gone unfulfilled for better than half a lifetime, and certainly the only part of her life she remembered clearly. Her absent father, her neglectful mother… these were things which, in the sudden shock of her sister being taken from her, could no longer be shoved below the surface and ignored.

Mary's hands went to her face and she hid her tears behind them until Marshall pulled them away and drew her to his chest; she cried against him, his hands traversing her bare, heaving shoulders and stroking through her somewhat tangled hair. She had not bothered to take it down properly or brush it, had only torn from it in a fury the heavy, ornate clip her mother had secured there and hurled the offending object at the bathroom mirror, which now bore a spider's web of cracks from the swift, angry strike of her fist that had followed in testament to her rage and heartbreak. Now Marshall tried to restore order in the only way he could, and it soothed Mary even when it pulled, causing her to flinch and him to whisper apologies… but he didn't stop, and she didn't want him to.

She settled again after a time, but he did not let go. The fact that she had quieted didn't mean the hurt was gone; her breathing told him she was still awake, and from the hollowness in his own chest that remained after the night's events, he knew her pain wouldn't abate for some time to come. He was almost startled when she spoke, finally; he'd grown accustomed to the silence around them.

"I never even asked them if Jinx was okay," she said slowly in a low whisper.

"I know," he replied just as softly.

"I just don't care."

"I know."

He fell silent again, as did she; there was nothing else to say about Jinx. She had finally ruined her own life, had ended the life of a stranger, and it looked as though there was little to be done to rectify the impact of her actions on Mary and Brandi. He could not fault Mary's lack of interest, for Jinx had forfeited the right to have her daughter care for her well-being the moment she'd shown such blatant disregard for both of her children, and tonight's incident was certainly not the first time even though it was likely the worst.

He became aware, too, of the fact that he was still partially dressed, still wearing his shoes, in point of fact, and Mary's dress was still partly on; the top half remained bunched at her waist and the skirt had fallen back far enough to cover her to her knees. He couldn't help but think how indecent they must have looked, him thrusting wantonly into a pile of satin and tulle with her legs wrapped around his back, but it had been needed so badly by both of them.

He tugged the dress down slowly, sliding it over her hips and down her thighs until it was off, and he shoved it to the floor in a heap, knowing she wouldn't care. He shucked his shoes and slid out of his pants the rest of the way, discarding the condom that still stuck to him and cleaning himself off with a handkerchief that he would, in all likelihood, tell his father he'd lost. Giving it back even after washing it would just seem wrong now.

As he rid himself of his socks, he saw that Mary was looking at him questioningly; he answered her with a gentle kiss, because there were no answers anymore. She shifted her weight as he pulled the blankets from under her, and he slid into bed with her and pulled the covers over them both. The twin bed was a tight fit for both of them but there was no need for more; bare skin to bare skin, they pressed together, neither able nor willing to allow space between them. Marshall was not in the habit of sleeping naked, and neither was Mary, but as with the small space of the bed, there was no need for more.

Possibly, too, there would be no actual sleeping; Mary's lips were on his neck and he was hard again, pressed against her belly, and she didn't seem to mind.

The pain, he supposed, had to go somewhere.

Marshall swung the pickup truck into the driveway. He'd awoken to the cold light of dawn in a tangle of arms and legs and sheets that smelled of sweat, sex, and tears, and Mary. When he'd pulled away the strands of golden hair plastered to his face by his own saliva, escaped during sleep, she'd stirred. He had not particularly wanted to go home after the night they'd spent, or rather, the handful of hours they'd spent talking and doing other things, but after he'd stated his promise to return the truck to his father, Mary had understood. She had informed him, quite convincingly, that she would likely sleep past noon, and sent him out the door with her house key, under orders to lock up behind himself and bring it back later.

This was not being pushed away; he knew that feeling all too well. This was allowing space for the wound to close a little before examining it again. They were both beyond exhausted, and they'd only been asleep for an hour or two before he'd woken up and realized he needed to go home. There was nothing to do now but sleep and deal with everything anew at a later time, and Mary, being Mary, saw no need for Marshall to piss off his dad to achieve that end.

Marshall let himself in, dropped his father's keys and the newspaper collected from the porch on the kitchen table next to his father's briefcase, and made straight for bed, kicking his shoes off as soon as he was in his room. Without bothering to undress or crawl beneath the covers, he collapsed face-first on the bed and let oblivion claim him.

Reality could wait a few hours.

Seth stopped at his son's bedroom door. He knew Marshall was home; Seth slept lightly and had heard the boy come in, and besides that, the door was left slightly ajar where it had been wide open the night before. Marshall's mother had raised the boys with an open-door policy, and wisely, for Seth's sons had gotten into enough trouble over the years without the added benefit of privacy. That the door was mostly closed told Seth that Marshall desperately wanted to be left alone. It was not that Marshall was shutting him out, as a closed door might have indicated. It was a request for leniency, and Seth was inclined to indulge him. It had been a rough night for all, and Marshall had always been a more sensitive kid than most.

Seth sighed. He really had to get out of the habit of thinking of his son as a boy, when Marshall had demonstrated so clearly those qualities which spoke to Seth of adulthood. He pressed his lips into a wistful smile, a sad cast coming over his eyes as he remembered the child with whom he'd played hide and seek in a stand of cottonwood trees many years ago. A small ache formed in his heart; how could it have been years when he remembered it like it had been only days ago?

The boy - no, the man Marshall had become - was no longer that child, who had sometimes needed a boost into the higher branches when it was one of his older brothers' turns to be 'it'. Seth had always been the best at finding him, though the others had never realized it was because when Seth was not the one seeking, he was occasionally helping Marshall to hide; a grown man could not hide so easily in a game played on the scale of children, and little Marshall's victories were his own. Seth had never told him this, had never expressed the glee he had felt as he watched his smallest son elude his brothers, clever and cunning even when he wasn't assisted. Seth had also never told him that when it was Marshall's turn to seek, he found Seth far more easily than his brothers did, and of that fact, Seth had always been proud.

Now, that little boy who was never led astray by false clues, who would never quit even if the light had gone and his mother was calling him for dinner, had grown up, and Seth had come to realize Marshall was like him in more ways than he'd thought. The sensitive intellectual whom his mother considered her legacy was, in fact, Seth's; those things that mattered most, that Marshall held dearly to his heart were the very same things Seth kept close to his own.

He headed downstairs and, settling at the kitchen table, he opened his briefcase, though it was not a work-day. His hand, with the familiarity of one walking a path traveled often, sought a pocket in the lining of the lid, and drew from it a small, laminated piece of paper. He stared down at a crayon-etched reflection of himself, of the father he'd been next to the image of the last child he'd raised, in fits and starts between assignments, during whatever time could be spared, and let his fingers trace over the drawing and the words scrawled next to it as he had many times before.

To Daddy.

Love, Marshall.

Matching stars were worn proudly on the shirts of the figures; of all his sons, the one who had seemed destined to be the least like himself was the one who had wanted it the most, and it struck Seth then with a force greater than gravity that the best job he'd ever had was done. Marshall had taken his first steps into being that man, and Seth's days raising him were over.

A/N: *hugs Seth* I'm really starting to love that man. As always, let me know what you think, and hang in there for next time.