A/N – A birthday present for the lovely and talented Carolina Nadeau! This was originally supposed to be a simple and fluffy vignette for Reflections, but as often happens, it has developed into a full-blown fic – there will be at least two more chapters to come after this one. And rest assured this will be a fun and fluffy fic, not an angsty one.

XXX

"Oh, Harold!"

This was a phrase Marian Paroo Hill said quite often. The majority of the time, it was said in exasperation, though good-natured rather than annoyed. But in the three months since the librarian and music professor had married, it was increasingly said in the most intimate of situations, sometimes in panting sighs, sometimes in ecstatic shouts, always a welcome sound to Harold's ears no matter what the tone and circumstance.

This snowy Saturday afternoon in early March 1913 was no exception. As husband and wife had spent a good deal of the morning cozily wrapped together beneath the warm goose-down quilt of their bed, Harold had not only coaxed a steady volley of this phrase from his dear little librarian, she had enthusiastically reciprocated by wringing her name from his lips over and over again with the clever ministrations of her hands, mouth and tongue.

While the former charlatan unabashedly gloried in what a wonderful influence he'd been on bringing out the strait-laced librarian's passionate nature, he had to laugh when he realized just how much her staunch Protestant work ethic was rubbing off him in return. Although both the music emporium and the library would not open again on Saturdays until the spring, Harold did not whisk his wife right back to bed after their rumbling stomachs had driven them down to the kitchen in search of lunch. Instead, when Marian curled up with Pride and Prejudice on the parlor sofa, he seized the opportunity to withdraw to the music room to peruse several new scores he'd been meaning to look at, but hadn't had the time to review.

However, Harold hadn't changed that much. Though it was a crucial part of his profession, analyzing scores was one of his least favorite tasks, right down there with routine paperwork. He found music on the printed page tedious and, at times, downright intimidating. Despite all that he'd learned from Marian and various books about music theory, he was never going to be a virtuoso in this department, and though he never hesitated to seek help from his far more gifted wife whenever an obscure symbol or complex chord progression stumped him, his lack of proficiency was an uncomfortable reminder of just how second-rate of a music professor he really was. He was like the immigrant who'd come to America when he was too old, able to learn just enough English to passably eke out a living, but doomed to speak the language brokenly and with a heavy accent for the rest of his life.

And it certainly didn't help matters that making love all morning had left him in a pleasantly languid stupor. Harold had barely gazed at the first two measures of Schubert's Unfinished Symphony before his eyes started to glaze over. In search of more interesting sights, they soon wandered to the window, where they fixed themselves on the fat, puffy snowflakes that drifted gracefully down to the ground. Yet as much as he shied away from work, music was permanently ingrained in his soul. The delicate buoyancy of the crystalline precipitation reminded him of Vivaldi's elegant Four Seasons, and it wasn't long before the music professor was whistling softly in tune with the falling snow.

XXX

Similarly enchanted by the snowfall, Marian had long since abandoned her novel and was now reclining on the bay-window seat, staring dreamily outside. She didn't normally spend her leisure time indulging in such spectacular indolence, but these past few weeks, she found herself lapsing into uncharacteristic spells of idleness whenever she didn't have any pressing pursuits that occupied her time. The librarian attributed this change to the newness of her marriage and her husband's decadent influence. Though the bombastic music professor was no less given to inactivity than she was, he was quite content to while away several hours in bed with her, even when they weren't making love. Sometimes they merely talked or even dozed off for long stretches, and Marian wouldn't have traded any of those languid hours in Harold's arms for all the diligent industry in the world. Though she was a bit bewildered by the increasing frequency of these aberrant stupors when she wasn't in her husband's embrace, she was quite content to revel in them.

If she and Harold hadn't just spent all morning making love, she would have gone right to the music room not long after she heard him merrily whistling the third movement of Vivaldi's Autumn symphony. It was quite something, how beautifully he whistled. Not only did he produce every note in clear and pitch-perfect tones, his tremolos were absolutely flawless.

Whistling was never something Marian could do very well, so she was quite in awe of Harold's skill. It somehow seemed perfectly fitting that the man who was so good with his mouth when it came to both talking and not talking could whistle with as much elegant ease as he spoke or made love. Still feeling the marks that wonderful mouth had just recently left on her neck, breasts, and the inside of her thighs, the librarian could not remain seated any longer, and made her way to the music room.

While Marian could easily admit to herself that her purpose in disturbing Harold was to make love to him, and though she had become much bolder about indicating her desire since their wedding night, she paused at the threshold of the door, not wanting to interrupt his beautiful rendition of Vivaldi's Autumn. Fortunately, there was no need to conceal herself. Even though the door was wide open, Harold's back was to her, and he was gazing out the window just as lazily as she'd been doing in the parlor. Marian suppressed a laugh – so much for analyzing scores!

But as ever, the music professor's sharp senses must have caught wind of her presence, for as soon as he wound up the symphony with one final trill, he turned to face her with an impish gaze and wide grin that held no trace of surprise.

"How do you do that?" Marian asked wonderingly, before he could tease her for attempting to sneak up on him.

Harold winked at her. "As I said before, it's quite simple. You simply think the tune up here… " He bounded across the room until his lips were inches from hers. " … and it comes out clearly here."

Marian laughed and ducked out of his embrace before he could kiss her. Even after three months of the most passionate of marriages, she still enjoyed making him chase her a bit. "Is that so, Mister Hill? Then why is this the only whistle I can do – " Placing her thumb and forefinger in her mouth, she let out a piercing blast.

The music professor winced and rubbed his right ear, which had gotten the brunt of the onslaught. "Ye gods, as Zaneeta would say! That packs quite a punch."

"That's my 'librarian whistle' to quiet a noisy room," she said with a smirk. "Used only as a last resort, of course," she primly added.

Harold chuckled. "I'm lucky you never used it on me last summer!"

"I didn't think of it at the time," Marian admitted sheepishly.

Not only was it a measure of just how much she had grown to trust the dashing former charlatan that she could openly acknowledge her vulnerability, Harold demonstrated just how protective he had become of her finer feelings in return by not mocking her about such a stunning lapse of poise.

Still, his eyes did twinkle with self-satisfied mirth as he approached the librarian and slid his arm around her waist. "Well, what say I teach you how to whistle like I do? Expand your repertoire a bit, as you've expanded mine."

Giving him that broad beam of approbation she knew warmed his insides, Marian replied, "I'd like that very much."

At that, Harold immediately became the serious instructor, meticulously modeling how she should shape her lips. Once he was satisfied with her form, she attempted a whistle. But all that came out was a rush of air.

"Now hold on a minute – you're getting too far ahead of yourself," her husband chided with a chuckle. "The correct pucker of one's lips is only one part of a successful whistle."

Marian couldn't resist pointing out, "So much for no one having to develop an elaborate technique for whistling!"

He gave her a crooked grin. "I never said the technique was elaborate. It's actually a lot simpler than it seems, once you get the hang of it."

"But it isn't effortless," she said, arching an eyebrow at him. "So what am I missing?"

"It's all in the way the air moves over your tongue," he said promptly. "I can't really demonstrate with my lips puckered. But why don't you try blowing as you move your tongue back and forward in your mouth."

Marian did just that, and was pleasantly surprised when she produced a weak but warbling whistle. Delighted, she experimented with different movements of her tongue, as well as increasing and decreasing the force of her exhalations, and was further gratified when her whistle grew louder and clearer. It was nothing compared to her husband's songbird trill, of course, but she had made a great deal of progress in a very short time.

"See, what did I tell you?" Harold said with a triumphant grin. "You'll be whistling Vivaldi just as beautifully as me in no time at all!"

"It is a lot easier than learning how to play an instrument," she conceded, too thrilled with her newfound ability to take that charming ego of his down a peg. "But I shall still have to practice quite awhile to catch up to you. After all, practice makes perfection, as Mrs. Shinn likes to say."

But from the heated look in Harold's eyes, it was clear he'd lost all interest in the subject, even as he said, "If you need any additional tutoring on how to properly move your tongue, I'd be more than happy to share my secrets… "

He was very close to Marian now, and all his talking about open mouths and moving tongues had already excited her. It was really quite something, second only to his talent for whistling, the way Harold could get her all hot and bothered over what started as the most benign of conversations.

"Yeah," Harold purred in his low, velvety voice, "it also greatly helps if you wet your lips a little bit… " Then his mouth was on hers, and his tongue was in her mouth, and the conversation turned into something else entirely.

Marian thoroughly enjoyed the ministrations of her husband's tongue, first as they kissed, and then as they made their way to their bedroom and undressed. That talented mouth of his avidly and skillfully worked its way down the length of her naked body, and after much tantalizing that increased both her longing and frustration, finally settled in between her thighs in earnest. Winding her fingers in Harold's hair, she sighed and then moaned and then screamed as he brought her to one climax after another, and she had lost count of the number of times she'd cried out in ecstasy before he finally raised his head from her lap.

As Harold drew her into his arms and covered her panting lips with soft kisses, Marian couldn't help wondering exactly where and how he had learned to do all these delectable things. Even if she'd been brave enough to ask him such a dicey question, he probably would have grinned and simply retorted "practice." And she would have believed it, as she had amassed quite a bit of knowledge after a few months of practice, herself. With that in mind, she rolled her husband onto his back and eagerly reciprocated everything he had just given her, though he only allowed her to bring him to the brink of climax before gently moving her head from his lap – or at least, as gently as he possibly could, given the passionate intensity of their lovemaking – and drawing her body up to cover his.

Marian expected Harold to roll her beneath him, as he usually did. But when he grasped her by the hips and thrust up against her with a pleading groan, she knew exactly what he wanted. And she gave it to him without the slightest maidenly hesitancy, taking him in with a loud and delighted moan. Ever since that heated night in January, when she'd first undressed her husband below the belt and moved on top of him, she discovered just how delightful it could be to take the lead from time to time. Whenever she displayed such initiative, Harold was more than happy to cede control of their embrace to her. But on this occasion, he was so keen to go that it was all she could do to hold on breathlessly as he set the pace, despite her position. Not that Marian minded in the least, as she was similarly wound up, coupling just as quickly and frantically with him in return.

So it wasn't long before husband and wife were lying, gasping and exhilarated, in each other's arms. As usual, Harold recovered his breath quicker than she did, and began to whistle happily. As soon as Marian recognized the jaunty and risqué tune, I Love My Wife But Oh You Kid!, she swatted his arm.

"Oh, Harold!" she admonished in a voice that was far more scandalized than she truly felt.

Undaunted, he started singing, "When poor Jonesy left the house each morning, they would sit and spoon. Tell your tootsie who you love, then softly he would croon: I love, I love, I love my wife, but, oh you kid – "

Though Marian couldn't help bursting into laughter at Harold's sheer cheek, she wasn't about to let him get the better of her. So she stopped her husband's provocative and impertinent mouth the best way she knew how – by covering it with her own for a long, deep and hungry kiss.