Fourth Thoughts

By Felicia Ferguson

Author's Note: Oh, how I wanted to rush Shane and Oliver through this time—especially Oliver—but if I did, I wouldn't fully honor their emotional journey. Therefore, Fourth Thoughts now only covers the letter thread that runs in For Christmas, filling in those gaps. Then the series will conclude with the appropriately named, Final Thoughts (and yes, please, God, let it be the end, lol), wrapping up Oliver's letter to Holly in what will likely be a multi-chapter story that runs through most, if not all, of From Paris With Love. So, Laura Daugherty, you'll get your request of Oliver's point of view to parallel Shane's in Shane's Third Self-Termination, Christine (mamalabo), you'll get your happy ending for this series, and all the POstables will get another long fanfic from the muse! Now, when that happens is still up for grabs (I've got to get back to the novel now), but at least it's officially on the list.

Your Requisite Writer-girl Ponderings (feel free to skip to the story): When Jordan asks Shane to dance at the conclusion of the gift wrapping, she is obviously interested in him, which leads me to believe nothing has progressed between her and Oliver in the four months (see below) since he sent the letter and refused her heart. In fact, they seem to have tucked their hearts back behind their individual walls and backpedaled to very professional interactions during For Christmas.

Shane stammers her explanation of her necklace's importance to her while they search under the table and appears surprised that Oliver can describe the pendant so perfectly. Even their personal conversation about Shane's being "disturbed by one child's letter to God" is rife with pained subtext and snippiness. While it could be argued that snippiness relates only to her childhood anger at God, I think there's a bit more gold to be mined than that. And just wait 'til we get to the snark and sharpness at the Mailbox Grille during the pageant rehearsal.

And wowza! Can I just say Thawing and Jealous Oliver are incredibly hard to write and make him feel just enough, but not too much, for where he is emotionally in the canon? Martha and Eric, you stretched this girl big time! But thank you!

Now for the Canon Timeline Discrepancies: In the Pilot, Oliver says two dates related to Kelly's letter, May and June. But with Shane's birthday of April 30th anchoring her card, which was mailed fourteen months and two days before her birthday, that leads me to keep the Pilot in June, 2014.

In Soulmates, Shane tells Oliver she has worked in the DLO "these past few weeks." But in A Hope and A Future, she says she's been working there for "six months" when discussing the NIFTS, which would mean they were close to Christmas. That does not fit with the weather or with her later statement in From Paris With Love that Oliver sent Holly's letter "last summer."

Therefore, I'm going to take artistic license and categorize the "six months" statement in A Hope and A Future as a flub and have the episodes ending in late August. That means there's an almost eight-month time lapse between when Oliver sent Holly's letter and it was returned with the International Misdirects in From Paris With Love (remember Shane's birthday is April 30th). For Christmas is thus the midpoint between both events. Given Writergirl has to leave the DLO for the real world again, I've had to insert some long time jumps in this story, but I believe it's still a satisfying read—especially while watching For Christmas. Hope y'all enjoy it!

As always, I own none of the conversations you recognize nor the characters, they belong to the incredible Martha Williamson, Eric Mabius, Kristin Booth, Yan-Kay Crystal Lowe, Geoff Gustafson, and Rob Estes.

Part One

Four months had passed since Oliver had stood in the rain with Ms. McInerney. Four long, and silent months as his letter to Holly went unanswered. Ergo, in those four months of silence, they had focused solely on their work, investigating and delivering lost letters, reuniting people with unattached items, and each ignoring the likelihood his own unattached item would one day return via the mail. But something still pricked at Oliver. A different disconcerting sensation. This feeling was an absence though rather than a presence. And it was only notable in the fact that there was an absence.

He allowed himself only the briefest moments of consideration of it. For what truly could come of considering something that was actually nothing? That was, until the postal ball when he fully experienced exactly what had been absent.

Ms. McInerney's entrance drew every eye in the room. Including his own. Was his heart the only one that stuttered in a chest? He tore his gaze away from Ms. McInerney to rescue Norman and compliment Rita, but when he caught his lady in red searching the room for someone other than himself, his heart once again stopped. His lips parted as she found that someone, took that someone's hand, and allowed that someone to escort her to the dance floor.

A tall, dark-haired stranger with chiseled features and a warm, appreciative smile. A smile which Ms. McInerney returned … with the smile that was once reserved only for himself.

As he watched this man leading her smiling visage to the dance floor, a pang clenched his heart. Ire raced through his blood. She was his. She had told him so, not in verbal words, but in words spoken on a deeper, a quieter level. In a language of long stares and short looks. Of quick smiles and throaty laughter. Of longing tears and heart wrenching sighs.

An emotion unfamiliar, but heady, coursed through him, whipping at his gentlemanly bearing and punch suddenly became the best idea he'd contemplated in months.

Realization dawned as slowly as the morning sun. That smile and the sensation that accompanied it. That was the absence Oliver felt. The Ms. McInerney feeling had disappeared from their interactions, from his life. Even her teasing had taken on an edge he hadn't experienced since her first weeks in the DLO. It was as if she had retreated, taken her heart and buried it deep, away from his view, from his reach.

He could not, however, fault her for such a retreat. After all, he had been the one to step back. He had refused the offer of her heart. Out of honor and gentlemanly commitment to his word, but it was a refusal nonetheless of something infinitely precious and not easily bestowed. And because of this, because of Holly and his continued commitment to his vows, he now fully appreciated that he could lose Ms. McInerney to another man. And possibly to this one.

As the two danced, Ms. McInerney readily teaching the stranger steps she had learned under Oliver's tutelage, she added delighted laughter to that special smile. Delighted laughter that also used to be directed solely at Oliver, teasing him, enthralling him.

The realization resulted in his grasping of Norman and Rita's joking about the word turf and conducting a quick and near savage postulation on its etymological origins. As his speech fell silent, he paid no mind to his colleagues as they stood silent beside him. All he could hear was the sultry notes of the rumba. All he could see was Ms. McInerney in the arms of this stranger. All he knew was that he had an immediate quandary to address.

He mindlessly sipped his punch, pondering the situation. They were at the postal ball in front of not only Rita and Norman, but the entire Denver-area postal community. He and Ms. McInerney were not only colleagues, he was her boss. He should do nothing. But the ire would not be quenched with reality, and every fiber in his being screamed he must do something. Action had to be taken. Ms. McInerney could not continue with this man. He clenched the dainty handle threatening it with a certain, shattering death as Rita's wary suggestion pierced the haze of jealousy.

"You know there's champagne over there if you need something … ah … stronger."

Alcohol was an option, but not one he could take as the section leader of a federal task force. There was decorum to maintain. "One never consumes alcohol when one dances the rumba."

A nervous titter laced Rita's absolution. "You're not dancing."

No, I am not. But— With that thought, Oliver sprang into action, released from his turmoil by Rita's quasi-permission. Relief flickered through the indignation as he shoved the punch cup at Norman. "Not yet."

As he stalked to the dance floor, however, he noted the other couples on the floor. The married couples. The dating couples. The ire eased to a simmer as reality finally cooled his heated thoughts. Ms. McInerney was not his turf, despite the giving of her heart. Because he had refused her. Because he was still a married man.

For the first time in three years, the limbo in which he'd lived stifled him, constricted him like the tightest of straight-jackets. But why here? Why now? Had his heart thawed enough under her gentle care and consideration that he was finally able to feel the pain she had already associated with his limbo?

Of course. It could only be because of her. The letter. The emotion. All of it was because of her. Because she had given him her heart. And because he desperately wanted to accept it, he could not stand by and watch her blithely move on to another man.

And so, he tapped on that man's shoulder and cut in to their dance.

##

Cutting into the dance, promenading across the floor, and dipping her low across his knee had resulted in the effect Oliver's heated blood desired. The stunned awareness in her eyes as he returned her to standing, held her deep in his embrace, also hinted at an acknowledgement of her past gift.

But the effect was short-lived. Mr. Marley once again swooped in, becoming the hero of the hour and locating Ms. McInerney's necklace, thus repositioning himself in Ms. McInerney's graces and opinion. Oliver chafed under the easy manner with which Mr. Marley took the liberty of reading the inscription on the back of the disc before he reclasped the necklace around Ms. McInerney's lovely neck.

But the details shared did nothing to soothe Oliver. C, not S. There was something he did not know about Ms. McInerney? Something that had been hidden right in front of him? Something that he now knew thanks only to another man's discovery?

Ms. McInerney's full explanation was cut off by the return of Rita and Norman and her grateful thanks to Mr. Marley for his rescue of the priceless object. Oliver's lips thinned and nose flared, but he held his tongue. The man would move on soon enough. Their quintet would return to a quartet, and all would be right once more in Oliver's world.

Yet again, though, Ms. McInerney stymied his plans. Apparently, simple thanks for locating her necklace was not sufficient. She also needed to invite the rescuer to join them. Oliver willed his stiff frame to bend and conform to his seat, but further consumption of the dinner was beyond him. Rita's opening of the discussion of the word turf, however, offered some hope of redirection. Surely on this topic, Oliver could once again shine for Ms. McInerney.

But no. Mr. Marley, it seemed, was also an aficionado of words. Or in Ms. McInerney's vernacular, a word nerd. If that weren't enough, their discussion moved on to Christmas miracles and impossible letters. At least in this, Mr. Marley's interest appeared sincere. And when he withdrew the letter, a child's letter to God, Oliver couldn't help the clench of his heart. It had not only arrived before his self-imposed deadline, but such a heartfelt plea demanded prompt and focused attention.

Professional pride pricked, Oliver led the team back to the DLO, still regaled in their postal ball finery, though Norman opted to dispose of a portion of his wardrobe in a preference for comfort. As Mr. Marley questioned Oliver about the leather-bound copy of A Christmas Carol, the earlier ire and irritation rose once again. The act which might have been meant as a quiet moment of male bonding, suddenly became a caustic reminder that he would spend a second Christmas alone.

Oliver stared at the book, loathing leeching into the desire to check an item off of his holiday to-do list. But a moment later, he tucked the personal thoughts away behind the icy wall, pockmarked and dented but still present, around his heart, and focused on the work. It was after all the one thing he was doing right in his life.

An hour later, the air was filled with keyboard clicks, turning pages, and phone calls. Oliver paced as he studied the child's letter. Surely, there were more details to be found. A letter like this, during this season was certainly a divine delivery to be resolved.

Ms. McInerney's hefty sigh of his name pulled his gaze from the paper. Polite authority wreathed his answer. "How are you coming?"

She stared at her computer screen, shoulders tensing with frustration. "I've accessed the hospital admissions records for the four major Denver hospitals, but there's no record of woman being brought in from Wyoming."

He padded over behind her and peered at the screen, noticing the absence of one of the big area hospitals. "What about Denver Mercy?"

Another irritated huff puffed from her lips. "I don't know. I can't get into their system. I have tried everything, but they have a firewall like I've never seen." Irritation sliced her words. "Maybe it's a sign."

Sensibilities pricked by her animosity, he walked back around her desk to face her, his own tones growing haughty. "That what … we should give up? I thought you knew me better than that." He paused and allowed his earlier irritation to rise between them. "Then again, I thought I knew you better—"

Fire flashed in her eyes as more than one letter sat unresolved between them. "Than what? Just say it."

Oliver took her bait. She had already proclaimed that she didn't celebrate Christmas, didn't believe in miracles, but there must be more to her ruffled sensibilities. Perhaps in this he might gain the upper hand over Mr. Marley. Ms. McInerney had previously shared deep, personal topics, and Oliver had kept them safe. Surely, another sharing of such would recall her to their connection.

His lips parted as he paused, taking care to choose the right words for which to slice to the heart of the issue. The condescending tone, however, laced those words without thought. "I'm just a bit mystified. You've been cheerfully working without complaint for six weeks day and night answering thousands of children's letters to Santa Claus. So why are you so disturbed by one child's letter to God?"

Her lips flinched as her eyes narrowed and lips firmed. His question had found its mark, jabbing directly at her. A patronizing delight rippled through him.

"Because," she bit out, "when a letter to Santa Claus gets answered, it's wrapped around something real. A doll. A bike. A puppy. But with God, who knows what the answer is. There's nothing to unwrap. Nothing to hold. Nothing to see." Bitterness froze her words. "That's assuming he's even bothered to answer you at all."

A real and deep hurt wrapped around her answer, slathering her words with a cynicism he hadn't heard since the first months of her employment in the DLO. Oliver's heart clenched. He watched her a moment, then turned away, retreating from her ferocity and back to the safety of the work.

But something paused him. Ms. McInerney was indeed angry at God, perhaps even felt wounded by him. Oliver scratched his ear then turned back, his mouth parted, but words failed as clicking keys and four months of silent separation suddenly screamed between them. Despite his impulse to soothe her ache, to change her view of the Person he'd committed to following, there was no way to broach the distance between them. Not with such a subject and in front of such an audience.

Yet again, there was no option but to step back. And so Oliver did.

##

Hours later, and the beginnings of a plan in place, Oliver and Mr. Marley stood in the quiet confines of the DLO. Tie already loosened, Oliver removed his tux jacket and hung it on the hat rack as Mr. Marley stood near the chessboard.

"Do you play?"

At his soft inquiry, Oliver grimaced, his eyes flicking to the board. He swallowed a perturbed sigh. Surely, Mr. Marley wasn't a chess grandmaster on top of everything else. "I was my high school's regional champion for three years in a row."

Mr. Marley's smile absorbed the curt reply without a flinch. Oliver's brow flickered as shame gripped his heart. He was being petty. And an atrocious host after Mr. Marley's polite request to join him here. Oliver's lips parted as he sniffed then turned to the refrigerator. "May I offer you a Yoo-Hoo?"

An hour later, fully settled into the game and on to their second round of Yoo-Hoos, stillness permeated the room. Mr. Marley was not a grandmaster, but he was still a worthy opponent on the board, as well as with Ms. McInerney. But as they traded pieces in the silence, an odd calm surrounded Oliver rather than sparking more animosity.

As Oliver took a pawn with his rook, Mr. Marley nodded, watching him with eyes that seemed to see more than Oliver was comfortable allowing. And yet, he could not find the words to curtail the silent analysis.

At length, Mr. Marley broke the quiet. He took a long sip of his Yoo-Hoo, then a fond smile of memory lifted his lips. "I have not had one of these in years."

Oliver rested his chin on steepled fingers as he pondered Mr. Marley's observation. "I find comfort in things of the past. Things of quality."

"Something to be said for that."

Oliver took in a quick breath then castled his king. He flicked a glance to Mr. Marley, gauging his reaction to the move but also trying to read beneath the agreeable response. Mr. Marley continued in his usual calm observation. The words then were spoken as a compliment and meant to be so. Oliver sniffed, then picked up his Yoo-Hoo and took a fortifying sip. Perhaps he was now satisfied and the queries, both spoken and silent, would now end.

But a moment later, Mr. Marley's interest seemed caught by yet another personal detail. "How long have you been married?"

Oliver glanced at his wedding ring. It was an obvious topic, especially in light of Mr. Marley's obvious fascination with Ms. McInerney. "Ah, the wedding was three years ago." Oliver took another sip of his drink, then lifted his gaze. Was Mr. Marley genuinely interested or merely testing the waters between Oliver and Ms. McInerney? But the man's gaze continued to be unreadable in its bland curiosity. Despite his wariness, Oliver's previous clipped tones softened with regret. "Being married is another story."

"Always is."

His gaze lifted to Mr. Marley as he weighed the words. Did condemnation lurk beneath the question? But no, Mr. Marley's open gaze exhibited only polite interest.

Returning his eyes to the board, Oliver opted for complete honesty in his abridged version of the tale of Holly's departure. Perhaps in some way it would make up for his previously abominable behavior. "We were visiting … the National Postal Museum in Washington. She knew how much that meant to me … so her walking out on me … there … had a … certain … sting … to it."

Again, only gentle curiosity radiated from Mr. Marley's eyes. "Where is she now?"

Oliver grimaced. "Paris ... I wrote her a letter a while back ... Never got an answer."

Mr. Marley's tone softened with compassion. "Nothing?"

Oliver shook his head and frowned. Why had Holly not responded? It had been four months. Plenty of time to receive a properly addressed and stamped letter and send a reply. Perhaps she was no longer at the address Ms. McInerney had located? What if he had waited too long to send the letter, and now there was no forwarding address? What then?

"Sounds like you got your answer." A soothing balm wrapped around the words, seeming to empathize with Oliver's frustration and yet giving him permission to move on.

Perhaps. But silence still wasn't closure, not when vows had been made and legal documents had been filed. "I guess." Oliver grimaced. "That first … Christmas was hard. But this … second Christmas makes it..."

"Real."

Oliver stared at the board. How much longer could he truly live like this? Married but not. Experiencing deep feelings for Ms. McInerney but unable to act on them.

"So, just you and Charles Dickens for Christmas this year?"

A long sigh slipped between Oliver's lips. Although he'd allowed himself to admit that he did possess feelings of a personal nature for Ms. McInerney, she could be no more than a colleague and friend until there was word from Holly. And so he remained, still in limbo, still waiting. But now also stuck between the silence of one woman and the hurt of another.

He lifted his bottle of Yoo-Hoo. "To the ghost of Christmas past."