Disclaimer: Haven't laid claim, yet…

Author's Note: Thank you all for the kind words during my semi-self-imposed hiatus. I had had half of this chapter written within days of the previous one, but then real life with real scumbags, real puzzles, and real angst just simply got in the way. For weeks. And weeks.

Sorry.

The announcement Thursday night of only 8 episodes in not only Season 5 but in the entire series… yeah, that didn't help the Muse or mood any, either. But as of Fri night, I started writing again. And now it is Sunday, and no IPS to immerse me in commentary and speculation. At least it was a great finale Sunday evening.

As always, reviews are most appreciated. Talk to me. How'd the chapter make you feel, make you think? Any one thing stand out? Make you smile? Cringe? Sniffle as a stray tear fled down your cheek?

-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-

Chapter 20: A State of Grace

She looked good. But Mary always looked good, even when she… didn't. She also looked something else, too. A little sad, maybe? Not like someone had died or ran away from her, but maybe like… like she didn't know what to do. Like she was lost. He'd never really seen her like that.

He leaned heavily, hip to counter, while he waited for the water to boil on the stove. Chilean coffee; she would like that. No coffee maker now, he went the old fashioned way with a filter and strainer. Gave him more time to think, to watch her without facing her. She sat just outside his open back door, the patio chair sheltered beneath the awning, protected from the storm that was trying to come. Breezes fluttered in, carrying the smell of rain and Mary.

She was staring out over his tiny back yard, mostly brick because it was easier to care for. Peter had done the work; he just rented it.

Raphael considered the woman he never expected to see again. Had been shocked when she had shown up at his door six minutes before, looking – ¿cómo se dice? – beaten. His first thought had been she was there for some easy sex. After all, they had had such sex after breaking up once before, and it was what she had always said was their thing. It had made him nervous, because he was in a happy relationship now with a comfortable woman who wanted all the things he did.

And she didn't do something secret, leaving in the middle of the night and getting shot.

But Mary had surprised him when she had stood there nervous, barely looking at him. Her first words were not big-life Mary, not about the bedroom. They were quiet and thoughtful and sort of fearful.

"Did I try to control us, Raph? Did I try to control you when we were together?" she had asked. Then had wiped angrily at her eyes where he suspected tears were building. He'd invited her in.

Now she sat on his back patio, just outside the open kitchen door, and stared into the walk lights that glowed about the tiny yard, soft against the colorful flowers his girlfriend had planted. No, she was not here for sex. She seemed to want to talk, but about what he did not know. Only that no one had died or was sick, though he believed Peter would have told him if that was the case.

The kettle rattled as its contents boiled, and he turned off the heat. Raphael could not recall how she drank her coffee, so after pouring the water through the grounds, he gathered a half gallon milk jug and container of sugar, spoon and mug and laid them out on the patio table glass. He studied her carefully as he sat with his own drink.

At first she did not acknowledge the offering, looking down slightly at it but back to the empty privacy fence across from them. Raph took several slow sips before she turned and began to prepare her coffee. Her words were so soft, he had to read her lips. Harder to do in English, but easy in that it was only a 'thank you.' He nodded, figured he would have to speak first.

"You look good, Mary," he managed, knowing nothing else to say. Finally she looked up, small smile saying she appreciated his compliment. Then her gaze returned down, shadows dancing across features he had once loved with his body. He missed that, missed her, but surprisingly he did not long for that once more.

She was silent for some time, taking a drink of her coffee. Then another. Looked around. Finally spoke, a voice small like a child's, unsure.

"Is that what really drove us apart? That I tried to control everything? You… us?" Her eyes reached his from her lowered face. She was hurting, and he hurt for her. He owed her honesty if nothing else.

"That was… part of it," he admitted, a pain to his heart when she winced. Honesty, however, was not complete there. Hard though it was for him, Raphael knew he had to let her hear the whole truth, not just what he had let her realize when he did not fight anymore for them all those months ago. "Part, Mary, but not, maybe, the biggest wall between us."

Her head snapped up at his words, her expression confused.

"What?" Now she stared at him, and he found himself ready to say what he could never say before. Before, it hurt too much. Now, the distance of time and body from her made the truth easier somehow.

He sighed heavily, adjusted his seating. Glanced out over the landscaping, distantly admiring the beauty as the sky lit in vicious patterns. Everything fit, and it was time this woman across from him heard the violence of his nightmares for many months. Dreams that no longer scared him, because he had passed them some time ago. They no longer left him worried and nervous; she was no longer the spirited, willful wind he could not hold onto. He was no longer so close, could see with better vision. This woman was now only someone he once knew, once loved, and once had mistakenly tried to carve into a picture of his future.

Now… she was a friend in need.

"You did not love me enough to bend so that we could meet on the same paths," he began. And when he saw her face drop further, he hurried to explain the real reason, something she never could have helped. "That was also only part, though. Mary…"

He waited until she looked back up at him, eyes glassy to the borrowed lighting from the kitchen counter lights. In that moment, a pressing question broke his thoughts, and he had to ask.

"Why is it you want to know this now? Now when it can make no difference, and not then when it might have?" His tone was light, and she could not miss that he asked in mere curiosity and not accusing. "I am only wondering; I do not condom you."

Her brows drew together in disapproving confusion, but rather than growl at him like she would have before, she only said, "I think you mean 'condemn,' Raph."

He simply nodded, and she seemed to take his easy acceptance to her correction as permission – or request – to move on, to answer his question. She took a deep breath, letting it out loudly through pursed lips.

"Well, um… Someone said something to me to that effect, that I… have to control everything. Myself, others… situations." Her gaze rambled around until she glanced back at him. "I guess I just wanted to know if they were right, if I really am that bad."

When she fell silent again, Raphael thought about her reason, and with no question he knew the man who had said this to her. And it was a man; it was the only person in the world she would worry about his opinion of her. This only made Raphael more sure of his beliefs from their own time as a couple.

"Our marriage never happened, Mary," he said, gentle and a little heartbroken, "because I was not first in your heart."

"My job," she mumbled in answer, knowing her fault so well. But she did not know her fault; she deserved to know the real reason, as she had never understood before.

"No, Mary, not your job." This time her head came up with a blink of his eyes, her own wide and shocked. "I hated your job, but you loved it, and I loved you, so I could handle it for you. Not with happiness, but I could survive. But…" He sighed, sat back in his chair, a sad smile telling her again that he was not angry.

"You always had someone else first in your heart, in your head. It was not me you told your fears to; it was not me you cried for when there was blood and hurt. It was not me, mi amiga, you laughed with and shared your good moments in life." His voice softened, and he tried once more to make her understand, herself.

"I was never the one you thought of first in everything; not even your mother or your sister." Now she was breathing quickly, scared, not watching him as he told her what she needed to hear. "No, Mary Shannon, there was only ever one person you were in love with, and it was not me, and that is why we do not have a marriage. And you could not have stopped yourself from loving him, any more than I could have made myself pretend you did not."

"In love with?" Mary sounded like a cartoon mouse, her speech so high. Raphael almost laughed; she really did not know. Or she did not want to know. He could believe either easily.

He laughed. He could not help the sound coming from his chest; she was so like a child right now. If only he could protect her; but that was someone else's job.

"Yes, Mary; you are in love with him. You have always been in love with him, even when we were good together with our thing." He stressed the term she always called them.

Silent was not normal for this powerful lady he had lost to another man before he had even met her. He let her think, and after a few minutes, she spoke.

"I don't know what being in love is," she finally said, careful not to look at him for long. He noticed she never asked the identity of the man. He smiled.

"You think of him first, no matter the news. You trust him upon everyone. You miss him when he is gone – really miss him – and talk to him about your mind. You are you when you are with him, and care what only he thinks. Mary, you have only not loved him with your body… and there were times I had thought maybe… well, maybe you wanted to do that. Your eyes said you did not want him with other women.

"That is love, and it is not a sad thing, Mary. Love him with all your heart, and do not let anyone – 'specially yourself – deny you this happiness. We all deserve such joy."

When she looked away, unable to speak, Raphael helped her change the topic. "Now, go home before my girlfriend thinks bad of me for spending so much time with you." Mary caught his smile as he stood, her face making one of its own. "You are still too beautiful for her to forgive me without me begging first."

Her low, choked laughter echoed in his head long after she had left. Somehow, he thought that now she might smile from deep inside. And that maybe, just maybe, he had helped her find that.

-o-0-o-

She hit the door running, just as she often did when coming into work after a long night. Unfortunately, her long night had not resulted from wild masculine entertainment or overindulgence from her buddy tequila, or a compromised witness whose very life and limb were at stake. It was not even an all-nighter with her best friend.

It was an all-nighter because of her best friend. And her own psychoses.

Ignoring Charlie's polite, perky words of greeting, Mary scanned the office quickly and efficiently as she stored her personal items, taking in that Marshall was not to be seen. Inventorying his desk, a stray breath held released in relief; he hadn't run away.

No, he wouldn't have; that was her modus operandi.

Blessedly familiar strains of solid boot steps echoed to her ears, and Mary's smile was instinctual, unconsidered as she looked up to seek their source. Mail and forms fell unnoticed from slightly trembling hands. He was speaking with one of the newbies from Phoenix, engrossed in seemingly serious conversation. Hand gestures drew her attention, and she caught the left full of a thick manila folder, the hand swaddled in a flesh-colored elastic bandage, thumb to beneath the long sleeve of his black button-down. The pair walked toward the conference room with telling looks and low tones before parting at the door. His associate entered the room; Marshall turned to his left, following course for the rooftop. Never once glancing back at her.

After last night… She needed to talk to him. They needed to talk.

Starting around her desk corner, she made only three strides before a voice called softly but authoritatively, "Let him be, Mary. He doesn't need to speak with you right now."

She stopped, out of surprise more than anything. Stan remained unmoved, but his eyes searched her critically, weightedly. She returned the gaze with wariness born of recent emotional upheaval. Cautiously she spoke, a glazing of typical derision masking her unease.

"With all due respect, Stan," she began, that in itself a phrase she never uses, "you don't know anything about –"

"I know and understand a great deal more than you think, Inspector." His gaze met hers directly, a conveyance of more than verbalized words. "And I repeat: leave it be for a while. Marshall needs some space."

Shock reverberated through Mary, leaving her speechless. Stan's implication rattled her; that he knew what Mary herself had only truly acknowledged last night at Marshall's all-but-blatant confession… He couldn't know… could he?

It was improbable, less than even, but Mary remained leery nonetheless and followed orders without the slightest grumble. Keeping a watchful eye on her strangely stalwart boss, she shifted weight and eased backward to her chair, seated herself and pulled her attention from Chief McQueen's drawn brow and serious, saddened eyes.

Her stomach roiled.

For the next hour, Mary accomplished little, her mind abandoning focus from the data presented before her. Time and again furtive glances through the conference room to the other side distracted concentration. Finally an excuse formed in the need for coffee, the requirement in brewing a new pot, all offering time to stare through exterior glass to his lone form seated at the bistro table. She cast a quick look to Stan's office. Ensured he was otherwise occupied, she quickly filled two mugs with appropriate condiments and slipped down through the path to personal hell.

He was seemingly engrossed in the file spread out before him, head bent over in study while notes were jotted upon white legal paper in steady block print. Approach was hesitant, but force of will kept her feet moving slowly toward him until she could place the mug lightly to his left. A pause, then she sat gingerly across, sipping her own brew quietly.

"Thank you." His manners prevented unbroken silence, and soft though it was, Mary felt the gracious expression as though a megaphone had amplified each gritty syllable. His voice was raw, calling Mary's curiosity as to what new torment had occurred after she'd fled his home the night prior.

He seemed to expect no response and she offered none, content to watch him from beneath half-closed lids, coffee double-held in some arcane sense of need to occupy her hands. He continued to write; she continued to observe the racing images of her mind, each presenting a topic with which to open conversation. Each failing before her lips with the fore-envisioned reaction, and she remained mute. Once so easy to talk with, so easy to share the silence with, and now neither felt right. But tension seemed absent as well, and for that an eternal gratefulness radiated.

Several minutes passed in such fashion, until her attention alit on a subject otherwise taboo as well had he known she already knew. But the question broke through before she could prevent it; at least it gave voice to their mutually shared existence.

"What happened to your wrist?" Gentle, easy, concerned. His writing stilled, and Mary could make out his eyes moving toward her, catching perhaps only peripheral sight as his head never moved. The hand in question flexed. A breath caught in her throat, and once more she wondered if her game was so far off as to have led her to making matters worse. She wondered if he would even answer.

After long moments more, Mary saw his eyes close slowly, flicker of pain darting across the expression. Raph had told her she was in love with Marshall. She didn't know whether that was true or if it were some other emotion dictating every wayward tug of instinct. But she did know that she wanted with all her heart to take away that hurt emanating from him now.

"Training injury." Blinking, refocusing, return to his notes.

He didn't lie to her, she considered. He may not have told her the whole truth, but he didn't try to cover it in backward speak and superfluous wording. That was Marshall: honest with her, even when truth was a road most feared.

Searching yet again for something to connect with him, Mary was on the verge of some fringe of speech when Stan's authoritative tone breached contemplation. Guilty was her face when she turned to him, his one of disapproval. Marshall's showed no acknowledgement but that same still wariness without looking up.

"Mary, we've got a situation with the Blakes. If you'll join me…?"

-o-

An entire day wasted, in Mary's highly-irritated opinion. But in the end she was able to keep her witnesses unharmed, in the program, and off Jerry Springer. Success by anyone's standards.

Mary trudged across the quad, stopping suddenly at the inviting bench before the duck-infested lake. It had taken an hour of creative suggestion, wheedling and hints of questionable material in the wings for a YouTube premiere just to keep Juanita Blake enrolled at UNM. She was exhausted. She was developing a headache as well, dropping blood sugar from missed lunch only adding to her agitation. Laying her head back atop the bench back, she massaged her neck and shoulders in effort to release painful tension.

Drifting with decompression, ponderings flitted through open spaces of her mind. Not for the first time – nor for the last, she was sure – internal arguments set forth regarding last evening's revelations. Why was it surprising and yet… not?

She already knew… 'cause he'd told her. Months ago. Aside from the allusions and suggestions. Point blank. At her so-called engagement party, he'd come right out and said it to her – before others – cloaked in the blessing of a best friend towards her happiness. His eyes had told her what she hadn't – didn't – want to hear. He loved her. Was in love with her.

But that was then. When he'd finally straight-out admitted this very earth-shattering upheaval to her the day of Stan and Eleanor's party, he had also clarified it in the past tense.

And yet Mary could not complain once, could not dispute or argue this alteration in status. She was the one who had chosen not to see or hear what was happening with her best friend, had avoided it like the Plague. And really, he had tried to tell her so many times before, in differing ways. Had his exuberant reaction to her unplanned ploy in a freshly bedded horse stall not given her a clue? Hands gripping her with violent passion, lips starved for her own. Kisses desperate –

"Mary?"

The smiling warmth of southern drawl broke her reverie. Mary's eyes peered open, her head rose off the heavy wooden slat to see Marshall's girlfriend standing braced before her, arms clasped about her heavy chest. Ponytail high and flowing maternity camisole leaving her looking fresh and picture of health, Shae smiled with an air of pleased surprise, the text held to chest in her clasped arms completing the image of adorableness. Mary had to admit it to herself, no matter how much she didn't want to see her partner's significant other in such complimentary terms.

Unfortunately, she liked Shae.

"Hey, Shae," she offered wearily. "Off to classes?"

"Just finishing," she said, looking every bit as worn as Mary felt. "So what brings you out here, Marshal Shannon? Have we a fugitive hiding in our academic midst?" A soft chuckle followed up, and Mary could then notice the lack of energy in the younger woman's demeanor. She appeared as though she hadn't slept in days.

"Nothing so exciting," Mary quickly replied, already dismissing the conversation in lieu of her sudden concern. Squinting with furrowed brows, she caught the slight muscle trembling in the Georgian's petite frame, and her own protector's tendencies took over.

"Shae, you need to sit down," she stated, standing herself and stepping toward the young woman, directing her toward the bench. Shae merely shook her head.

"I'm fine, Mary. If I sit down now, it'll take a Skylift to get my hulking posterior back up." Supporting hand to her lower back, Shae shifted her weight, the quilted tote on her shoulder jingling as it swung.

"You look like you're about five seconds from taking a skydive from an altitude of five feet if you don't sit your ass down now," she argued, gently but firmly grasping Shae's arm and upper back and steering her to respite. "I'm surprised Marshall isn't personally escorting you to and from your every jaunt these days; Mother Hen would be right pissed if he saw you right now."

Shae's feet suddenly halted and she turned to Mary, a new paleness drawing even greater worry now from the latter.

Her words were hesitant, an embarrassment hanging like a shroud. Eyes caught Mary's then flicked away. Back and forth, a mixture of concern and uncertainty. "Marshall didn't… tell you?"

"Tell me what?" An air of trepidation; Mary didn't like where this was going, and she had no idea just where that was. Shae's manner was disconcerting.

Quieter, ashamed. "We, uh… broke up."

"What?" Mary had to strain to hear, sure she had not caught that right. Shae merely bit her lower lip, looked around apprehensively as though judgment were upon her. Finally a shallow sigh escaped and she moved to sit down on the bench carefully.

"What happened?" The concern and bemusement were genuine, and Mary could not reconcile this news with the seemingly thorough joy her partner had shown the last time she had seen the couple together. A fear began to radiate within, sudden realization of the previous night. Had Mary herself inadvertently caused this? All that bound-up energy, that edgy nervousness in Marshall… what had he said? The heart wants what the heart wants… and mine has always wanted you.

Mary felt ill; she could not be responsible. No; no way. This weight was not hers to bear; she couldn't handle it now, not that guilt. Not on top of everything else.

Shae studied her feet for a moment, attention drifting up until it search out upon the lake for a sight upon which to light.

"Well… I broke up with him." Tears formed and fell with rapid intent, Shae swiping at them with vengeance, mumbling about stupid hormones. "Sunday night."

This explained Marshall's strangely quiet mood Monday, his touchiness Tuesday after range when she – well, when they had had their tête-à-tête. Recollections shaken off, Mary concentrated on the streaked face before her. She decided to ask outright.

"Whhhyyy…?" she hedged, unsure the sense in asking, unable to refrain.

"Mary, I…" she began. A small choked sound eeked out, but then Shae drew a deep breath and continued, determined to cleanse herself of some tightly-held pain.

"I thought I understood… you… and Marshall…" Mary blanched, a sense of shame robbing blood from her face. Shae did not appear to notice, however, and continued with little more than a sniffle and occasional lip-chewing.

"But what I thought I knew and what reality is… My God, Mary. It was horrible." Another place and time took Shae's mind, and Mary could only watch the reliving play across her face. "I watched it all play out on the news. He didn't tell me where he was going or what he was doing, just that there was an issue with work. But it was on the news. Right after he left. And I knew – I just knew that's where he'd gone. And for hours, all I could do was sit there, eyes glued to that screen, praying to God he came out of it alive, safe and sound. Then they'd said two officers had gotten shot – one was a marshal. And for a few terrifying minutes I wondered if it was Marshall balancing that line between life and –"

Shae's words cut off abruptly with a choked inhalation, words unable to be spoken. Mary forced an outward breath; it had nothing to do with Marshall's confession last night. No; it was Shae's plunge into the stark world of life with a deputy marshal, and the violent uncertainty that came with that choice. A part of her heart broke for the girl; it wasn't a love meant for everyone.

Shae went on, fighting sobs threatening. Either out of pregnancy endocrines or stress or simply a bad day, they were there, battling for dominance and nearly – Mary was sure – winning. Southern stubbornness held on, though, and with only the occasional glance at Mary for reassurance (for what, exactly?), she continued.

"But then they'd said it had been before the media coverage, and Marshall had just left home when I'd turned it on." Deep breath, another back of hand to her damp eyes. Mary remained quiet; there was nothing for her to say.

"Knowing what he did for a living – in theory – was fine. I was fine with that. But now… now I understand just what a life with him would be like. I can handle the crazy hours; it's the unpredictability with his life that scares the living hell out of me! Mary," she said, finally looking directly at the marshal. "I love him more than I can say, but I know that because I do, I couldn't handle it if something happened to him. I want – need a man I can count on to come home at night, to me and the baby. Not someone I live in constant fear of his superiors or partner coming to the door, instead, telling me he's not coming home ever again.

"To jump every time his phone rings, worrying if he's walking into a hostage situation or some fugitive who wants so badly to not go back to prison that he'd take everyone with him…. I just can't do that." With that the dam broke, and Shae's tears fell in deluge, body shook with fatigue and racking sobs. And Mary, in a moment she might not ever understand, sat and wrapped her arms in fierce protection around the young woman who had held Marshall's happiness off Mary's unknowing shoulders. She shushed and soothed and stroked chestnut hair, and wished all the while she could have saved this woman the pain of this life's lesson.

-o-

Shadows cast by security lights filtering softly through her window cycled with the languid circle of the ceiling fan. Bright syncopation flashed in turn, dry thunder following in dull tease. Mary stared unseeingly at the patterns above, instead seeing the images she attempted to force from consciousness to sub. Strains all too familiar now enveloped her, the room, the night. Plaintive sonata, beseeching for the dream that had haunted her for months, begging a version to take root. She wanted the fantasy, needed to dream it again. It was her escape, her own personal Walkabout. Quest. Vision. Mary wanted answers, guidance… something.

But she did not dream of Marshall that night, nor of a belly heavy with his child. There was only the sweltering heat of a night fraught with dark promise.