A/N: Hi! I am totally new to this amazing show and to this fandom. I just discovered it last week, and binge-watched over the course of a few days. I was inspired to continue on from "The Vows We Have Made," filling in a few blanks along the way. By the way, please note that this is Rated T for adult themes and references to married love (though I hope you find it tastefully done).
In the Wee Small Hours
So, for the second time that day, the POstables solved the mystery of a letter, and sent it on its way to its rightful owner. Oliver's desk was once again satisfyingly clear so that he could place all his focus on his new wife. But it was nearly two in the morning before they finally made it home to Shane's house, a bit giddy from their late-night accomplishment, the three glasses of champagne at the reception, and the sheer joy of finally being truly together. Unfortunately, the giddiness was also a result of sheer exhaustion from the roller coaster ride of emotions that had been the past few days. None of these things bode well for a romantic wedding night, especially when they had to catch a plane for London in ten hours.
But when the Uber dropped them off, and they climbed the steps to her house, past the porch swing where they'd spent many a contented hour of their courtship, Oliver nuzzled into her sweet-smelling hair, having charmingly fallen from its once neat bun. She struggled tiredly to open her door, her giggle at her own ineptness suddenly turning to a sigh of pleasure. She paused in her work, leaning against his chest as his arms held her to him.
"Alone at last, beautiful wife," he whispered.
"Yes," she said, eyes closed.
He reached around her, took the key from her limp fingers, and inserted it into the lock, then turned the knob and pushed open the door. When she moved to enter, he held her fast.
"I believe there's one more tradition we must observe this evening."
"Hm?" As tired as she was, Shane felt she could stand there forever in her husband's arms, but it wasn't to be—Oliver had other, better ideas, for she suddenly found herself deftly lifted as every bride has imagined since marriage began. She gasped and laughed, her hands going to his shoulders for support.
"Oliver!" was all she could manage, before he stopped her half-hearted protest with a kiss and carried her over the threshold. When he lifted his head again, they were inside her warm, dark house, the door kicked closed by her husband's nimble foot. He lowered her gently to the hardwood floor, her body sliding down his in a most pleasing way. Arms snaking around his neck, she kissed him again, the romance of his old-fashioned gesture touching her heart and briefly reviving her enthusiasm.
When their breathing became audible in the silent house, she pulled away from his tempting mouth and took his hand, leading him purposefully down the hall.
She'd left a lamp on low on her bedside table, and her eyes touched briefly on their packed suitcases stacked on the bench at the end of her queen-size bed. Oliver stood uncertainly, almost shyly in the flowery room, the scent of her perfume redolent in the air, her vanity table scattered with mysterious feminine bottles and brushes. His bow tie hung loosely from his collar, his suitcoat a little rumpled from the long day-he was dead tired, but didn't want to disappoint his wife, for while his spirit was certainly willing, his flesh was pushing fifty.
Shane was assessing him with that knowing look that was sometimes maddening in its accuracy, sometimes…comforting. Her own yawn surprised her, and she covered her mouth sheepishly.
"Sorry…it's not the company, believe me. It's been a glorious day, but very, very long."
He swallowed hard to suppress his own answering yawn. "That it has."
Her hands went absently to the clasp of her furry stole, and Oliver stepped closer. "Allow me."
He reached out and unfastened it for her and she shivered at his touch and the sudden loss of warmth. He laid the wrap carefully on a nearby chair and turned back to her, admiring once again the loveliness of her wedding dress, remembering how his breath had caught the first time he'd seen her at end of the aisle.
"Would you be terribly disappointed if we uh, just slept, at least for a little while?" she asked, flushing pink, wondering at his reaction to her question, although there was a slumberous quality to his eyes, a slowness to his movements that indicated he was struggling as much as she was. She knew he was a gentleman, would respect whatever she asked of him, but also, she didn't want to disappoint her husband, knowing in her current state she wouldn't be at her best should they decide to do more than just sleep.
"I certainly won't be disappointed in you, my love," he replied, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Truth be told, I find myself longing for those days in college when I would have taken an all-nighter easily in stride. But, I suppose you figured that out and have taken pity on me."
She smiled, her hand going up to his face, feeling the unfamiliar stubble that now darkened his cheeks. "The feeling's mutual, believe me. Let's get some sleep; our honeymoon doesn't officially start until later anyway, right?"
That was debatable, but he wasn't going to argue with her logic. "Do you want me to uh, sleep in the guest bedroom?"
She laughed. "Of course not. I want to spend the rest of this night in my husband's arms." She softly kissed his lips, before turning her back to him. "Unzip me, please."
He stared at her back, having dreamed of such a moment so many times, it was surreal that it was finally happening. He was pleased that his fingers only trembled a little as they grasped the zipper, and he stepped closer, unable to resist kissing the bare skin he exposed as he drew it slowly downward. It slid past her bra closure, and further still, until it stopped at the base of her spine. Her back was smooth and white as alabaster, femininely muscled, and his warm hands traced those muscles lightly, reverently. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her cheeks rosy as he realized she was just as affected by his touch as he was.
"I'll just change in the bathroom. Make yourself comfortable."
He watched her walk away to the ensuite facilities, and he stood frozen a moment. This night certainly wasn't happening as he'd planned. Sure, he'd foreseen some awkwardness, but he'd envisioned that would quickly make way for other things, and they'd soon forget any lingering nervousness. He glanced at the closed door, heard the running of water and realized it would be much more awkward if she came out to find him still in his tux. Quickly, he began to undress, stopping when he stood only in his plain white undershirt and boxers, his suit joining her stole on the chair.
He looked down and was debating whether to leave on his black socks when Shane appeared once more in the doorway, wearing a silky confection of white lace. Her hair was down, loose curls resting on bare shoulders and the thin straps of her nightgown. Her face was devoid of makeup, looking dewy and fresh, and he decided immediately that he loved her even more this way. Her delicate décolletage was nothing short of miraculous, and Oliver's mouth went dry before he hastily found her eyes again. She smiled at his stunned expression, her gaze roaming over his ensemble in amusement. "Leave off the socks," she said helpfully, breaking the spell, and he chuckled, bending to comply with his lady's wishes before tossing them on the chair.
He opened his suitcase and fished out his shaving kit. "I'll just…" he said, trailing off as she began removing the multitude of throw pillows from the bed. Why on earth did women need so many pillows?
"My house is your house, Oliver…literally," she told him with a grin, nodding toward the bathroom.
He cleared his throat. "Thank you." He went into the bathroom and closed the door with a soft click.
Shane finished readying the bed and sat on the turned down covers, surveying the room with new eyes. They hadn't decided yet where they would ultimately live—her house, his, or another they chose together—but for this night, their wedding night, he'd suggested they stay at hers so that she would be more comfortable surrounded by her own things. It made her smile to herself in gratitude at the blessing of having this wonderful man as her husband, so thoughtful, so protective of her feelings.
The night had certainly not gone according to plan, but that was okay. They had not been intimate yet, so what was one more night? She thought back a few months before, after he'd proposed to her. They'd sat on her front porch in the swing, kissing, both in awe of this journey they'd embarked upon. It had been by unspoken agreement that they hadn't taken their physical relationship to the next level, and Oliver had been a gentleman in every way.
She'd suspected his holding back was due to his faith, and she'd respected that, hadn't pushed no matter how much she'd wanted to. Not to say that there was no passion on his part, that it hadn't become increasingly difficult to say good-bye as their personal relationship grew, so it was with welcome surprise that on the night of their engagement, his hands had wandered over her body in a new and exciting way. At her soft moan of appreciation, he removed his hands as if he'd been burned, standing up so suddenly the porch swing had listed alarmingly, and she'd grabbed the arm rest for support.
"Oliver!"
"Forgive me," he said, his breath ragged. "I forgot myself…"
"There's nothing to forgive, Oliver. We're engaged now—"
"Yes, of course, but I don't want to make the same mistake I made with Holly."
She stared at him wide-eyed, wondering how to interpret that bit of information. He turned away from her and she let him be silent, to gather himself as she needed to as well. As the minutes slipped by, she began to grow impatient, and cold. She pulled her coat more snuggly about her thin bridesmaid's dress.
"Oliver, talk to me," she said softly, when the anticipation became unbearable.
Seemingly reluctantly, he re-joined her on the swing, though his body was stiff and too far away to offer her any warmth.
"When I was younger, I was a very different man," he began haltingly. "I had become genuinely confident in myself for the first time in my life. I was a young postman, wore my hair longer, and discovered, much to my amazement, that some women found me attractive. I think it was the uniform." Shane bit her lip to stop from smiling, imagining him in the short pants of a postal delivery man. Oblivious to her amusement, he continued. "At any rate, let's just say that I began sowing my wild oats—enough it seems to feed the entire horse population of Colorado."
Shane couldn't hold back a laugh at that. "Surely not."
He grinned sheepishly. "Perhaps my male pride exaggerates, but I was certainly not using good judgment, let alone self-control, at least not in that part of my life-wine, women, and song, as Johann Strauss so aptly immortalized in his famous waltz. I'd stopped going to church, and I suppose all of this was not just a young man's folly; I was hurting, I see now, still dealing with the absence of my mother, reaching out for the wrong kind of love and feminine relationships." He shrugged. "I'm sure Freud would have had a field day with me."
She reached for his hand, cold now. She was pleased when he took it, gave it a reassuring squeeze.
"I had that falling out with my dad, was feeling fairly empty inside, and the fulfillment I felt in my work wasn't enough to sustain me at the rate I was going, when all at once two things happened that shaped my understanding of the importance of trusting in the divine timing of things. First, I ran into Mrs. Genzinger, who commented that she hadn't seen me in church in awhile. She wasn't being judgmental; just curious. Concerned, perhaps. I was ashamed that I'd let her down, that I'd let myself down, and God most of all. The next day, I finally spoke to Dale Travers, and she invited me to her church. I was there the next Sunday, and soon after she encouraged me to join her for choir practice. I rededicated myself to the Lord, applied for the job at the DLO, and life seemed finally to click into place. Then, I met Holly."
Oliver sighed wearily, before shifting his knees toward Shane. He held her cold hands between his, rubbing absently. "I'm sorry—I'm making a short story unnecessarily long. We can talk about this another time, maybe when it's a little warmer—"
"No, please. I want to know everything about you, Oliver. The good, the bad…the Holly." She smiled gently and he returned it.
"Very well, but remember later that you could have saved yourself from this."
"I'll take my chances. Go on."
"You know how Holly and I met, and what happened after we married. But what I was ashamed to tell you was that Holly reawakened the man that I had tried to leave behind. I had never been so suddenly taken off balance by a woman—at that point in time anyway—" he hastened to add. "And, I'm rather embarrassed to admit, we uh, anticipated our wedding vows. I fancied myself in love far too soon, felt obligated by my faith to do the honorable thing and marry her, though she laughed at my old-fashioned sensibilities, and chose instead to see our whirlwind courtship as wonderfully romantic. And well, you know the rest of that sad tale."
"Yes," she said, trying to process the significance of his story, the meaning behind what he was trying to tell her. It didn't take long to figure it out. "So what you're saying is, you would like for us to wait until we're married," she offered carefully.
"Is this a deal-breaker?" he asked. "I would understand if it were; some say it's better to try on shoes before you purchase them."
"Oh, Oliver. I'm sure you know that I've…tried on shoes before. As you can see, that certainly didn't help with Steve, or Jason from college. I'm in my forties and unmarried, after all, and you've helped me see the value in faith, in the kind of pure relationship we've had together. Neither of us are in a position to judge others who've chosen to live their lives differently, and most have gone on to have long-lasting, beautiful marriages. I would be lying if I hadn't thought, hadn't wished even, that once we were engaged, things might…progress between us. But this, my love, is not a deal-breaker. Because we have built this strong, honest relationship, because we were friends first, I have no doubt that waiting until we marry will only make things even better between us, in every way."
He drew her into his arms again, silently thanking God for this woman who'd agreed to become his wife, whose worth was far more than rubies.
"This is not to say that I don't find you infinitely tempting," he whispered near her ear. "So much so that I'd be happy not to enjoy a long engagement."
She smiled, slipping her hands inside his coat to embrace his waist and warm her icy hands. "I agree wholeheartedly. I mean, when you know, you know, right?"
He chuckled, and sealed the deal with a kiss.
Xxxxxxxxxxxx
Oliver came out of the bathroom, his hair carefully combed, hands and face washed, teeth brushed, and ready, at least in appearance, for bed. Inside, his heart was pounding with the thought of finally sharing a bed with her, no matter what might transpire there. On the right side of the bed, beneath the covers, lay his wife, her blond hair shining in the lamplight. She patted the space beside her in welcome, a beatific smile upon her lovely face. He suddenly remembered the advice he'd given to Norman before his friend's wedding to Rita: When the time comes, you will know your lines, and it will be beautiful. A sudden feeling of rightness and calm washed over him, and Oliver no longer hesitated; he knew his lines.
"I'm afraid we're going to have a problem," he said, moving to the open side of the bed. He sat down and took her hand, bringing it to his mouth to plant a kiss just above her new ring.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're kidding me."
"I have always slept on the right. For the sake of our marriage, one of us is going to have to change sides."
She shrugged. "I got here first."
Although his face was impassive, his eyes sparkled with warm humor. "I'd offer to flip a coin, but I seem to have misplaced my trousers."
She eyed his well-formed legs with interest. "Hmm, that is a quandary. "We could arm wrestle, or play rock, paper, scissors…"
He slid between the sheets and moved closer to her warmth. "Or, we could meet in the middle, as we have been wont to do since the day we met."
She switched off the lamp and scooted closer until she embraced him in the center of the mattress. "I like the way you think, Mr. O'Toole."
"You mentioned something about wrestling," he said hopefully, kissing her cheek.
She laughed at the mischief in his tone. "Arm wrestling, which might be very awkward, given our current position." He'd apparently been too tired to shave, and she found his scratchy stubble impossibly sexy.
He hummed something inaudible, as he snuggled closer, and they both reveled in this newfound closeness, the silkiness of her gown sliding around his lightly furred legs. His hands skimmed up and down her back and he unerringly found her lips in the darkness.
His ex-wife had been right, at least about Oliver's kisses, Shane thought. For despite his staid appearance, Oliver definitely knew what he was doing when it came to kissing a woman senseless. Since the first moment their lips had met, she'd been overwhelmed with how well the curve of his strong, firm mouth fit perfectly against hers. He possessed a skill and thoroughness that took her breath and scrambled her brains, leaving her feeling a little off balance for minutes, sometimes hours afterwards. Tonight, entwined beneath the blankets of her bed, she found herself drifting upon a sea of feeling, her mind going pleasantly blank as he slowly re-learned the secrets of her mouth, caressed her sensually with knowing hands.
Oliver knew something was off the moment she stopped responding to his kisses. He released her slack lips and pulled back a little, attempting to see her in the dimness.
"Shane?" he whispered, but of course his wife had fallen soundly asleep, her breathing soft and deep. He smiled wryly, wondering what this said about his prowess in the bedroom. It was like Sleeping Beauty in reverse, he thought in amusement. Resigned to his fate, he rolled gingerly onto his back lest he wake her, and allowed himself to succumb to his own exhaustion.
Xxxxxxxxxxxxx
They startled awake as a loud crash of thunder shook the house. Sometime in the night they'd ended up spooning on the right side of the bed, her back nestled against his front, his hands about her waist, her head tucked beneath his chin. Gray light seeped beneath the blinds; it must be just after daybreak.
"London calling," he quipped, his voice sleep rough and sexy, before the sharp patter of rain pelted the windows. He felt her lithe body shake with laughter.
"I think London's come to us."
She turned in his arms. "Good morning," she said shyly, pressing her lips softly to his. "I believe I must have fallen asleep at an inopportune moment last night."
"A less confident man might have been offended."
"Then how fortunate am I, to have married such a paragon."
Her fingers came up to run through his hair, tousled over his brow in sleep, making him look at least ten years younger. She found she loved him even more this way, all unkempt and sleepy. It warmed her to think she would awaken to this every morning for the rest of her life.
Oliver preened beneath her touch, marveling that he would awaken to this beautiful woman every morning for the rest of his life, that he was allowed to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her whenever he liked. Before he did any of those things, however, he allowed the practical side of his nature to intervene.
"What time is it?" he asked, given that his pocket watch was in his tux and he owned no cell phone.
"I don't know," she replied, not moving from his arms to look. "I set my alarm for seven-thirty. I don't think it's that late."
The rain continued its lulling tattoo against the glass, and thunder occasionally rumbled in the distance. Oliver's heart skipped a beat, then sped up as he realized they likely had plenty of time to start their honeymoon right this moment. He saw in her darkened eyes that she had come to this realization too. Her hand drifted from his hair to caress his cheek.
"I love you, Oliver," she said simply, though there was a catch in her voice that betrayed her deep emotions.
"I love you too, so very, very much."
And then he kissed her, their passion exploding like a late summer storm. Hands and mouths explored, giving and receiving pleasure, and they found that their joining was far more intense, more meaningful for the waiting.
Later, as their bodies cooled, and they hovered near the edge of sleep, Shane's musical alarm broke the mood. Oliver groaned at being jarred to wakefulness for the second time that morning. Naturally, the only remedy for it was Shakespeare:
"It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear."*
Eyes still closed as she lay beside him, Shane smiled blissfully. Even she recognized this particular allusion. She gave him a different kind of pleasure in her lazy paraphrased reply: "It is the lark that sings so out of tune. We must be gone and go to London, or stay and miss our flight."
Oliver laughed, feeling freer and more in love in that moment than he had ever been in his life. He pulled her close again until she lay beneath him.
"London can wait," he said, and found her lips once more.
THE END
A/N: I hope you liked this story. I'm not sure if I'll write another for this fandom, for it's already so perfect as it is. But should they make another movie, you might see me here again. In the meantime, if you enjoyed my writing, I have written many other stories for many other fandoms, including "When Calls the Heart." Please click on my name and check them out—you might find another that catches your fancy. Thanks for reading.
*from Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene 5
