Marshall lay on the bed in standard issue hospital gown, the slow beep of a heart monitor in the background, and his blonde, dirty, puffy eyed partner staring at him intently from the chair she'd moved to touch the bed. She'd been sitting there for three hours and had yet to do little more than breath and take his hand in her own and rub her thumb back and forth over his knuckles.
When he'd gotten out of surgery, she verbally and almost physically assaulted the nurse who told her 'family members only', until Stan took the young nurse by the shoulder and led her down the hall. Her mom and sister left with little fight, knowing Mary, and soon enough she was alone to marinade in what she would say when he woke up.
To tell you the truth, she didn't have the slightest idea what to say.
"Hey buddy, thanks for not dying!"
"Get well soon douche bag."
"I better not have to pick up your slack."
"I know what you meant back there. You couldn't have just said it? What if you had died? Just say, 'Mary I l...'"
She shook her head. She just wanted to sleep, sleep the whole god forsaken day away and the next time she went into work Marshall would be sitting at his desk, free and clear of bullets and IVs and arm slings, ready to help if she needed it, when she needed it, not because he loved her and she knew it now, but because they were best friends and he was the only one she had, and ultimately the only one she needed. It occurred to her that things hadn't always been as simple as she imagined them now, that maybe all of the times she needed him to be there for her he needed it just as much, if not more. A lot more.
Love. What did Marshall know about love? He prattled off random facts no one cared about, dressed more like he was going to a line dance than to protect a witness, he was handsome, in some tall dorky sort of way, but no Adonis. He was the type of guy you could tell was the teacher's best friend in fifth grade. He went to goo around babies, which would turn any other woman into goo, except Mary. He wore airplane pajamas and did nothing with his hair in the morning. And, Mary now knew, could show off his well of medical knowledge by bragging how he saved his own life, only to her of course. But when push came to shove Marshall had her back, he was awkward but far from stupid. He would do anything to protect a witness, to protect Mary, and had, on more than one occasion, used his surprising 'bad ass law man' moves to show some slimy son of a bitch who was in charge.
And all of these things Mary could've cared less about sitting in the chair beside his hospital bed. They were the things that made Marshall, all of the little quirks, even the annoying ones, that would've made Mary a weak in the knees school girl if she'd let herself see what was really going on.
She ran a hand through her hair and let herself fall back into the chair, resting her hands on her stomach and staring at the spotted tile ceiling. It wasn't a question of her exhaustion when she would leave, just when he woke up and told her he was okay. Although his demeanor from the day might have wavered her belief in his constant reassurance for her sake.
When she finally let out the gust of air that had been filling her lungs the past thirty seconds she sat up and saw Marshall's almost haunting blue eyes staring contently at her. She didn't try to smile but felt a soft grin on her face.
His chest jutted as he coughed and when he was done she stood up and laid a hand over his dressed wound, barely touching it.
"What time is it?" Marshall asked, his voice horse and raspy.
"Around seven."
"You should go home."
Mary shook her head, "I didn't almost punch a nurse then sit here all night bored off my ass for the genius to tell me to go home."
"Fine. But know that the real reason I didn't die actually was for you." He replied, adopting back their way of communication as Mary had.
"Like I didn't know. I'm a toxic animal remember?"
Marshall stifled a laugh to escape the pain, "Exotic."
Mary's eyes fell and she curled her lips in before smiling back at him and whispering, "Exotic."
They sat for a second in comfortable silence, only inches away from each other with her hand still on his chest.
"Mary--I...thank you."
She leaned up on her toes and her lips brushed his briefly then landed on his cheek the way they had before. When she pulled back she found his face, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, in an almost painful state that had nothing to do with the gun shot. Marshall lifted his hand to rest on Mary's and she felt tears sting her dry, tired eyes.
And from the way they stayed like that, for as long as they did, Mary knew, or hoped rather, that in some cosmic work of fate things wouldn't be as hard as she saw them reflected in Marshall's eyes. But he was strong, and so was she.