Disclaimer: If Mary Shannon and Marshall Mann belonged to me, we'd definitely have a few other directions going by this point.

Author's Note: This concept had been floating about in my head for weeks now, and after seeing last week's 'Death Becomes Her' and the relationship progression / digression of Mary and Marshall, I just felt it had to be begun. Expect some drama, some humor, a fair bit of angst, and… well, you get the picture. The ending I've got, the gist, too. I'm just not totally sure where it's going to go in the meantime.

Short first chapter.

Reviews are greatly appreciated.

Seven Year Hitch

-o-o-0-o-o-

Chapter 1: If You Love Something… Set It Free

Albuquerque, Present Day

"It has a 2.4-liter DOHC four-cylinder engine, producing 173 bhp and 144 pounds per foot of torque. Straight six, dual exhaust, with five-speed automatic, wheelbase of twenty-six fifty; 17-inch alloy wheels wrapped in 215/45 R17 premiums."

"Meaning?"

He glanced down at her without moving, face impassive. "Meaning… it'll do." Gaze returned to straight ahead, falling somewhere over the distant horizon of desert and sage.

Mary frowned. Marshall's response, though forthcoming with specifications on the potential buy before them, was offered with a dry, encyclopedic delivery unlike himself. No animation, no cajoling over environmental features, no proffered comparison to other options on the lot. Just… a direct answer. No more, no less.

Directing her attention back to the titanium gray 2009 Kia Forte Koup before her, a trade-in Peter still had on the lot rather than having taken to auction, Inspector Marshal Mary Shannon considered her situation. The '65 Mustang was just a loner, after all, and certainly not practical in her line of work. Though the vehicle before her was an attractive consideration, she couldn't help but mourn the loss of her old Probe. It was her, after all. Persevering, invasive, scarred history…

"Okay, Mr. I-have-a-scientifically-based-opinion-on-everything, what should I get? What says 'me'?" she asked

"It's your choice," he answered flatly. "It's always been your choice." His voice had taken on a melancholy feel, too short-lived for her to take notice. Not that she would have, her focus still on her own contemplations. Then a murmured, "I can't help you make it; I never could."

But Mary failed to hear him, continuing on the Versus theme. "The Mustang's impractical and a shit load of money, but Jesus, it's fun to drive." She hesitated, walked a wide-eyed inspection about the Koup again, weighing options repeatedly before returning next to her partner.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually miss the Probe. It was something I knew, you know? No second-guessing, no surprises around the corner. If she acted up, I knew what to expect, even if it was fucked up beyond repair. But there's something to be said for that kind of familiarity, right?" A quick glance at the following silence reassured her Marshall was still there, but obvious distraction kept him mute.

Slightly irritated by his inattention, she went on. "I mean, this is nice – really nice – and all, but couldn't I just hire someone to throw another engine in the Probe so I can just go on with my life, without having to change yet another damn thing? I mean, who needs double-digit gas mileage, anyway?" Gestures of arms tossed about in exasperation, paces here and there, groans. "I just want my car back," she whinged. When Marshall remained silent, she snapped.

"What, no dissertation of psychoanalyzing mumbo-jumbo? No comparisons of how my Probe was representational of my falling down, piece of shit life hanging together with duct tape and the Force?" A verbal poke, a jab; something to egg a reaction out of him. It was unsettling for Marshall to be so… un-Marshall.

"Mary… no matter how much you may want/desire/long for something, sometimes… you just can't… have it." Studiously avoiding eye contact. Or view of her. Jaw tight. In concentration? In annoyance? "So… you have to resign yourself to that knowledge and consciously allow yourself to move into the next phase of your search if you hope to ever reach any modicum of contentment, and readjust your expectations in said level of cheer to accept what is poorly named 'second best' – even if it is a distant second best – rather than lose out on all chance of happiness."

Here he paused; a slight shift in mood, definitely underlying agitation. Finally he faced slightly toward her, not meeting her eyes. "Listen, I have to go," came his abrupt statement, his posture growing animated. "I've a meeting," he explained to the ground, and he turned swiftly in escape. "See you tomorrow." With that, he took leave, not once looking back.

Mary could only stare after him, baffled.

-o-

Ground-eating strides could not carry Inspector Marshal Marshall Mann from the car lot fast enough. Breaking into a jog might be a tad conspicuous, and above all else he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself. So he contented himself with his own version of speed walking, concentrating on breathing, clearing of mind, focus of intent. Reaching his GMC, he slowed only long enough to unlock, settle, belt-in, and ignite the engine before he was running ten over on the highway.

He'd told her he had a meeting, and he did – sort of. But Marshall still had things to do at the office, and by duty and habit found himself at the Sunshine Building less than a quarter hour later. Mary would be a while at Alpert Autoplex, giving him time to conclude business and be gone should she decide to return tonight. He couldn't be near her right now.

Office bare of staff and inspectors, Marshall exhaled a relieved sigh, forcing effort to calm himself. Now was not the time to dwell on the conclusion his logical mind had drawn earlier today, the same intent his philosophical heart had violently mutinied over. He would need time, days perhaps, to ruminate. But in the end, he knew it was for the best and would resolve to accept the inevitable decision.

Twelve minutes later, only a last check of his e-mail held him to task before heading out for the night. Delete. Delete. Delete. Save as Unread. Delete. Delete.

Then the message from this morning. At 5:46, when he'd ventured in early to catch up on paperwork. The one that had blindsided him, engaged him down a rollercoaster path of epiphany and self-honesty.

It wasn't something new; he'd read ones like this far too many times over the years, and each time a solemn pang of poignant grief settled in him. But this time, a chord struck with a jarring jerk, and Marshall had been thrown off his mental feet to thoughts he'd painstakingly ignored for years.

State Trooper Anthony Vinecci
Nevada State Police
Nevada
End of Watch: Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Biographical Information
Age: 42
Tour of Duty: 11 years
Badge Number: 7218

Incident Details
Cause of Death: Gunfire
Date of Incident: Sunday, April 18, 2010
Weapon Used: .357 Magnum Revolver
Suspect Info: Escaped

State Trooper Anthony Vinecci was shot during a vehicle stop, later succumbing to his wounds.

Marshall skimmed the paragraphed details, eyes arresting at the same place as this morning…

Trooper Vinecci is survived by his parents in Vermont and two older brothers.

Survived by his parents and siblings. No wife to mourn his passing. No children to recreate his image and pass along to the world the fact he had ever been there. No one to understand when they cleared out his effects what the scribbled notes on his fridge stood for, or the significance of the faded lavender ribbon tied to the neck of his worn acoustic guitar.

It had hit Marshall then, hit him in a way conveniently forgotten over the past few years. His sights and heart so irrevocably set on perfection… but perfection was proving unattainable. And he wasn't getting any younger; his career wasn't getting any safer.

A traffic stop. Vinecci had simply pulled a guy over for expired tags. No warning. There was no such thing as a routine traffic stop, and anything could happen at any time. To any of them.

A witness would call him, suicidal over the crushing weight of losing an entire identity, a lifetime. One flinch in error, a haphazard handling of a gun in an inexperienced civilian's hand…

Who would mourn his passing? What would he even leave behind? A collection of oddities and curiosities, snippets of cultures and facts and feelings. Reflections of a life full of curiosity and generosity, a sensitivity to the world around him. A lifetime of knowledge, of learning.

But who would know the truth about his origami cranes, and the significance of the Judo Smurf atop his home PC?

He was in love with Mary. Desperately, completely. Intertwined. But his best friend did not return the sentiment, and Marshall had deluded himself long enough. He could continue pining, giving in to fleeting half-hearted flings, biding time for her to realize his place in her heart. Or… he could stop lying to himself. Stop fooling himself into believing she would one day love him in return.

It had been seven years ago this summer when they'd met. A feeling had stirred in him by the time his witnesses had settled into Albuquerque. He'd seen a spark in her that screamed depth and talent, and he'd shared his instinct with Stan. It was another two years before she'd made the change, turned WitSec Inspector, and later was assigned to his territory. Nobody else would work with her, he'd heard, but that had been okay with him; he would. Another two years, and their friendship had established, grown, deepened. Then one day he had glanced over at her as she holstered her weapon, only their frightened witness cowering in the darkened corner of the warehouse office. Rare words of comfort had crossed her lips, concern etched in her features. It was then he suddenly realized he loved her.

He was 41 years old, now. And alone. And it could be him on that notice. Another name, another salute and half-mast flag, nothing left but his badge to mark his passage through this world.

She would never requite his feelings for her. It was time he set her free. It was time he moved on. With life. The loss of a dream, one so close as to be tangible, yet just on the fringes of reality… it was a strange pain that coursed through him with the acknowledgement. He was giving up on his own personal Heaven. Growing up, perhaps. Or growing old. Or simply… withering.

Second-best – even a distant second best – was better than nothing. Right? He had to believe it was.

For his own sake.

Marshall logged out, powered off the monitor, and left the building. He had a meeting. It was time he set himself free.