Author's Note: Having recently found this show and being utterly intrigued, I've decided to try my hand in the IPS fandom. The best part about WIPs is that the readers get some control over the story, too!

Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing related to this show or it's characters. If I did, I'd still be writing it, but I'd be making money from it. But alas, I am not, and the joy still remains. No lawsuits, please ;)

The WITSEC office was scarcely decorated; a few strands of multi-colored lights ran across the crown molding, a few more clinging to a pitiful excuse for a tree. Empty boxes delicately wrapped in festive paper were scattered under the tree, all of them mysteriously from Santa, even though it was only early afternoon on Christmas Eve.

Mary had spent every free second glaring at Eleanor. The one place she could take solace from the Holidays had been turned into a cheap attraction, and she knew it was at least partially to get a rise out of her. And damn it all to hell, it was working. She could still recall the comment from earlier in the morning:

"It's always so gloomy around here," Eleanor had said, "especially with your sunny disposition." Mary had assured herself that if her phone hadn't started ringing - Silent Night, no less, which earned Marshall a disapproving death stare of his own - she would have thrown a sensational comeback right at the "pleasant office manager, who's only trying to help". Stan's words, not hers.

It had been Raph on the phone, just like it had been Raph on the phone every hour on the hour since six, confirming that they were still going out to dinner. She didn't mind the first couple of calls; she even thought of it as mildly sweet, as far as that goes, but by nine, her patience had worn thin. She assured Raph that their plans were still on and hastily snapped her phone back into it's clip on her belt.

"Just because Jesus had a birthday doesn't mean you had to screw with my phone, pea brain." She flopped back into her chair and ran a hand through her hair, wondering how many more unpleasant surprises her day had in store for her.

"You're absolutely right, Mary, except Jesus' birthday had nothing to do with it."

"Oh Christ." She dropped her head and banged it against her desk, knowing full well that Marshall was about to spout off more useless information that would intensify her headache.

"He was actually born in the summer. His birthday was moved to coincide with the traditional Pagan holiday that celebrated the winter solstice with lit fires and slaughtered goats."

Mary snorted. "Sounds better than listening to my mom get drunk and drown in self-pity while she makes Brandi cry, all the while pissing me off."

"And all of this leading up to your big dinner plans. I still cannot see why you hate holidays so much."

She waved off his comment with the flick of a finger and went back to sorting through the papers on her desk. She had every one of her witness files from the last year scattered about, knowing that people always got sentimental around this time and decided to get in touch with their families. After six years of it, she didn't even bother guessing how many relocations she would be looking at by New Year's. "Jesus, somebody just shoot me already."

"You know, according to suicide statistics, Monday is the favored day for self-destruction," he added, pretending to take a long drink of coffee while he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

"Fine, shoot me Monday."

"If I shot you, it wouldn't be suicide."

"Call it euthanasia, then! What's up with you today? You usually take small breaks between doses of weird."

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe it's because Mark Twain was born on and died on days when Halley's Comet could be seen."

"You really need to switch to decaf, Slugger. It's rewiring your brain so even I can't understand it. Not good."

"And why's that?"

"You're wearing cologne. You never wear cologne unless, God forbid, you have a date." Color crept to Marshall's face as he did his best to hide behind his computer monitor, knowing the onslaught of questions to come.

"You must not be smelling enough cinnamon," he said, hoping to distract her just long enough for him to make himself scarce.

"Come again, Cowboy?"

"Smelling cinnamon boosts cognitive function and memory. I wear cologne three days a week."

"Liar," she smirked. Catching him like this was definitely the high point of her day, and she intended to relish it. "So, spill the non-decaf beans. Who is she?"

He remained silent for a moment, contemplating his answer. "Shelley." He spoke the word slow and deliberately, exhaling to the point where he was essentially holding his breath, hesitant to meet her eyes.

"Shelly? Like... 'Hey, I'm here to shrink your head' psychologist Shelley?"

"I've heard she prefers to be addressed as Shelley Finkel, but yes, that Shelley."

"I thought she blew you off for the crybaby already. You barely date, let alone give girls second chances."

"How do you figure you know how many chances I give to whom?"

"I kinda bought a condo inside your head, remember? The clutter is atrocious, but it saves me time already knowing answers before I ask."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Because talking about relationships embarrasses you. How could you not see that?" Her half-smile had turned into a full blown shit-eating grin at the expense of Marshall's deeply colored complexion.

"Both Hitler and Napoleon were missing one testicle," he blurted as he rose, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair.

"Aw, come on," she cooed, "I didn't mean anything by it." She grabbed her own coat and closed the distance between them quickly. "You can tell me all about it while I let you buy me lunch."

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