A/N: I'm so grateful for all your kind reviews, both here and on Twitter, as well as the extra few notes of encouragement to hurry and post, lol. That's high praise indeed. Despite my best laid plans, this is not, in fact, the last chapter of this fic. I hope you like it.

Chapter 6

Oliver

I am saved from answering Shane's inquiry regarding the state of my face by the arrival of Shane's doctor. I rise and step aside, and he spends some time shining light in her eyes just as the nurse had, checking her chart on his hand-held computer—iPad?—and asking her basic questions. I'm glad to hear she knows her name, the year, and who the current president is. He actually removes the bandage around her head himself to peek at the neat row of stitches on her temple, and I can tell he's pleased that it doesn't appear to be infected. I smile when I hear Shane ask with some concern whether it will leave a scar. It is less than an inch long and so close to her scalp that no one would notice even if it does. The doctor reassures her of this.

He checks her left arm that is in the cast, and she gives a small hiss of pain when he gently moves it. My first instinct upon hearing any expression of discomfort is to go to her, but I restrain myself—I know I'd just be in the way.

"Are you her husband?" the doctor asks, startling me with the question. I feel my face heat.

"Uh, no," I sputter—I think the expression I must be displaying is reminiscent of a deer in headlights. But what are we, exactly? Shane and I have not had the chance to define that.

"He's my closest friend, Oliver," Shane answers, coming to my rescue. I can tell she is amused at my discombobulation, which apparently never seems to get old for her. "He's also my boss," she adds, just to make me feel even more awkward. Her version of tugging my proverbial pigtails, I'm sure.

The doctor seems oblivious to any subtext, and decides I am close enough to her to share his diagnosis. "She still is suffering from the effects of a severe concussion, but I'm satisfied the swelling in her brain has gone down enough that it shouldn't leave her with any lasting issues. She may have some memory loss from around the time of the accident, and that may or may not return to her. Her arm will be in that cast for a few weeks, but I believe it should heal completely."

He turns to Shane, who is obviously irritated that he's been talking to me about her condition instead of directly to her. "With plenty of rest, you should recover in no time. You'll have a headache for a while, and maybe some nausea, but we'll start you off with a soft and liquid diet and treat you with mild pain medication."

"When can I get out of here?" Shane asks. Her recent alertness seems to be fading, and her voice is becoming slower, a bit slurred. Coming out of a coma must be very taxing, and she seems suddenly very tired again.

"Let's take it day by day. You'll need to rest here a few more days, but before you leave, I'll want to see that you can walk and get around, at least partly under your own steam."

"Okay. Thank you…" She trails off sleepily, but the doctor doesn't seem concerned.

"This is normal," he tells me. "She'll sleep a lot over the next several hours. She may get agitated or annoyed more easily, so don't be taken aback if that happens. Just be comforting and encouraging. I'll come by and check on her this evening."

"Thank you," I say as he leaves. I move back to Shane and automatically reach for her hand. She awakens again and looks drowsily up at me.

"You're still here," she mumbles.

"Yes," I say. Unable to stop myself now, I lean down to kiss her cheek, careful of the bruise above her cheekbone. "Don't try too hard to speak," I whisper. "You need your rest."

"Okay…husband…"

I pull back as if I've been burned. Is this the amnesia the doctor mentioned? Is she experiencing some unforeseen side-effects of her brain injury? But then I meet her eyes, and they are sparkling with mischief. She manages a weak wink, and then she drifts off again.

I laugh and kiss her cheek again. The little minx, I adore her.

Oh, Lord, I'm so very thankful she is well enough to tease me.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Soon after, Mrs. McInerney arrives, and I fill her in on the doctor's visit. She fusses over her daughter, adjusting her pillow, her blanket, her hair. Shane rewards her by awakening for a few minutes. She seems surprised, but comforted that her mother is there, and doesn't balk at her fawning or grateful tears. I leave, giving them some privacy.

I am suddenly feeling the mental and physical exhaustion of the last few days, and instead of seeking out more coffee, I go home for a bit. After I call Dad and Rita and give them the good news about Shane, I manage to completely divest myself of my clothing this time, set my alarm for three hours, and climb into bed, where I have no difficulty falling into a deep, renewing sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Shane

I find that every time I awaken, it's like I have to fight my way through a dense fog. I hear the muffled sound of people talking first, then slowly, I come out of the haze and push open my eyes with some effort. At first, it's difficult to focus, but I see that Mom is here, and despite our mother-daughter clashes of the past, I find I am overwhelmingly glad to see her. She is overly-solicitous and bossy and annoying (as always), but I love her dearly and feel better with her here.

I look over toward the windowsill and notice a huge bouquet of yellow roses in a beautifully ornate vase. That, I know, could only be from Oliver. My mother confirms it.

"He's a very thoughtful man, your Oliver."

"Yes," I say dreamily, my heart skipping a beat.

I still don't remember why I'm in the hospital, and after Mom insists on feeding me my simple meal of beef broth and orange Jell-O, I feel awake enough to ask her about it.

She hesitates, so I know she is trying to spare me additional pain or unpleasantness. Naturally, this scares me even more.

"Mom," I prompt her.

She sighs in resignation, remembering how we do share a dogged stubbornness. "You remember being with Steve on that top secret mission I still know next to nothing about…?"

"Yes."

"I guess you were being evacuated from your first location and moving to a more secure place, when your SUV hit a roadside bomb, and it rolled. They found your arm pinned beneath you, and your face all bruised, and bloody from the cut on your head. You apparently banged your head pretty hard against the door when the SUV finally stopped." She shuddered at the thought of it. I was naturally horrified, but it was like she was telling me a scary story about someone I don't really know; I had no memory of it happening to me.

"Was anyone else hurt? Steve-?"

"No. He wasn't in the vehicle with you, and your driver made it out with a few bumps and bruises. He was wearing his helmet, from what I heard from Steve. Steve's the one who found your overturned SUV, pulled you out and got you to a military hospital. That's all I know about that. He arranged to have you sent to Denver, since I was still on that cruise. Do you remember any of this?"

"No," I say, my sluggish brain trying to absorb it all.

"They put you in a coma for a few days to reduce the swelling in your brain. Oliver's been here 'round the clock, except the couple times I bullied him to go home and rest. I'm hoping that's where he is right now."

I was touched by this, that he cared enough to stay with me.

"Where's Steve?"

Mom shrugs. "I've no idea. Since I kicked him out, I haven't seen hide nor hair of the scoundrel."

"You kicked him out? After he rescued me?"

Mom's eyes narrow. I know that look. She's always been protective of me—to a fault sometimes. She knows he'd hurt me back in Washington, but I'd told her how he'd helped us on a recent DLO case, and I'd assured her I'd had no problem working with him on this project, or I wouldn't have gone.

"He was supposed to protect you," she says tightly.

"I don't remember what happened, but I know that bomb couldn't possibly have been his fault."

"I don't want to get you worked up," Mom said suddenly, dismissively. "You should probably try to get some more rest."

I push that aside for a moment, remembering something else that had been nagging at me from earlier. "Why is Oliver's face so beaten up? Was he in some sort of accident?"

Mom purses her lips. I knew that look too—she wasn't ready to talk. "It's not my story to tell," she says mysteriously.

Then she busies herself moving my tray table away and lowering the head of the bed without my asking her to. She pulls my covers up around my neck, gently arranging my broken arm again, all of which makes me unaccountably annoyed. It is a good thing my meal and conversation had worn me out, or I would have laid into her and demanded she tell me about Oliver. Instead, I fall sleep with several unanswered questions.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When I awaken again, Mom is gone and Oliver is here. He smiles gently at me, his blue eyes intent with that same look of admiration I remembered from our last date. I'm so grateful I can still recall that night, one of the most special of my life.

"Hey," I say, my tongue heavy in my mouth. He notices and brings a straw to my lips. I gratefully sip the cold water.

"Hello," he replies, with a quiet joy that warms my heart. He sits in the chair beside me, taking my hand. I feel a thrill as we lace our fingers together. I love his strong, capable hands.

"Thank you for the roses." I'm gratified when he blushes.

"You're welcome. I'm afraid I had to cut yours back for the season." He feels moved to recite a bit of poetry, and I bask in the richness of his voice and the tenderness in his eyes as he speaks:

"'The lily has a smooth stalk,

Will never hurt your hand:

But the rose upon her briar

Is lady of the land.'"

"I hope you don't mean that I have thorns," I say slyly.

He grins, but doesn't take the bait. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"That doesn't sound like Shakespeare."

"Christina Rosetti. You're looking much better today, Miss McInerney." The way he says my name now, the formal version, seems much more intimate somehow.

He sits in the chair beside me, taking my hand. I feel a thrill as we lace our fingers together. I love his strong, capable hands.

I take in his black eye, mottled nose, and inflamed jaw. "Wish I could say the same for you." Yeah, buddy, I haven't forgotten.

He is silent, averting his eyes, gathering his thoughts, no doubt, and hopefully not concocting a story that is more palatable than the truth.

"I was in a boxing match," he confesses at last.

"You box?" I'm somewhat surprised at this. He doesn't seem to be the pugilistic type, although I know he has a temper, especially when he feels hurt or in a corner.

"Yes. It's an anger management technique."

"Oh, really?" I'm not buying that it's as simple as that, however. I force a dramatic sigh. "Spill it, Oliver. Who were you fighting, and why?"

My scattered brain is starting to put the pieces together, and I don't like the picture it's creating. Mom had kicked Steve out, and Oliver was given full access to me? Something was definitely up here. His sheepish expression confirms my suspicions.

"I uh, challenged Steve Marek to a duel. He accepted."

Despite the confirmation, I'm at a loss for words. A duel? How very…sixteenth century of him.

"I've since apologized," Oliver stumbles on. "I clearly overreacted. But in my defense, he did promise to protect you with his life. He wasn't even in the SUV with you that day."

"A duel? I'm assuming with fists rather than guns. What in the world is going on here? I'm out of it for a few days, and—"

"You've been out of it for two months," he shoots back angrily. And now I'm angry too.

I take a deep, shaky breath. "Is that what this is about, really? The fact that I left…with-with Steve? I know you've always been jealous of him, Oliver, but you don't have to be. It's been over between us for a long time."

Oliver is silent. He's standing now, having released my hand, his fists clenched tightly at his side. The sudden distance is physically painful.

"Oliver. You do believe me, don't you?"

He stares at me, and I see the fury and fear and something indefinable swirling around in his eyes. "You didn't have to go," he says in a tired whisper. His hands unclench and he looks beaten in more ways than one, his face draining of all color save the multiple colors of his bruises.

"You encouraged me, Oliver," I say, feeling the tears start and remembering in a rush all my regrets while I was over in that horrible place. "You could have at least told me you wished I would stay."

"Would you have?"

"I guess we'll never know, will we?"

"Shane, I—" He appears desperate now, hurt perhaps, and still angry with me. "It wasn't my place to tell you what to do. A gentleman would never think to exert his will over a lady, but you had a choice, and you made it, and well, here we are."

I am furious now, and I wonder if they're seeing my blood pressure rise on the monitors in the nurses' station. "So, this is…my fault?"

"Of course not. If it's anyone's, it's the fault of those terrorists who laid the IEDs, and well, Steve shares a hand in it, with his lack of foresight, though I'm doing my utmost to forgive him."

"Are you?" I can hear the ice in my own voice. "How very magnanimous of you. Tell me, does Steve's face look as bad as yours?"

"Worse, I'm afraid. I regret that, like I said. One of my many regrets."

"Tell me, Oliver, what are some of your other regrets? Do you regret our last date? Do you regret our kiss on the stairs, or not kissing me goodnight? Do you-"

"Yes!" He interrupts. "I do regret not kissing you goodnight or goodbye. I regret letting you go when my heart was begging you to stay. I regret that we never seem to get a break where our dates are concerned. And yes, I admit that I have been jealous of Steve since the first time I saw you together. He obviously still has designs on you; you two have a history, after all, and I would by lying if I said I didn't have my doubts about the true motive of his asking you to work for him. But I didn't feel it was my place to intervene. When—if—you choose me, I want you to do it of your own free will, without feeling pressured by me or anyone else."

I hear and feel the passion of his words, and I am filled with frustration and helpless longing. I don't know what more I can to say to allay his fears, but my soul is crying out to confess how much I love him, how much I missed him. Would that be enough for this damaged, complicated man? Was he truly ready to hear it? My head is pounding and things appear a little dark around the edges of my vision. Thinking suddenly seems like the most difficult thing in the world right now.

"I'm sorry," he says stiffly, formally. "I see I'm distressing you. I didn't want to discuss this yet, fearful of that very possibility."

"Read my letters," I tell him, sinking down into my pillow as I fight in vain the darkness that is taking me under. I succumb, unable to keep my eyes open.

Oliver

"Shane?" I say, watching her close her eyes and appear to fall asleep. She doesn't reply, and her breathing becomes deep and even. I can't believe I engaged her in this tense argument when she was recovering from a brain injury. I wonder what came over me, and I feel deeply ashamed of myself.

I hadn't intended to get into this, but she asked me directly, and she always instinctively knows just what buttons to push that cause me to overreact. I don't blame her; I think I am especially hypersensitive where she is concerned, because so many of my feelings are invested when it comes to her. I believe we both made it quite clear where we stand on the events of the last two months: I am still angry that she left; she is angry that I didn't ask her to stay. It would be comical if it weren't so frustrating.

I thought I had all this under control. I'd made things right with Steve, but mainly with God—or so I thought. The emotional weight of Shane's absence, then nearly losing her forever has been more trying than I could have imagined, and all of those emotions came to the fore the moment she awakened and said my name. Everything in me wants to run from this, to go back to the security of the DLO and do my job and force her out of my mind.

But I can't. I'm well and truly hooked, and I love her too much to leave her. If I have learned anything from the last two months apart, it is this undeniable fact, painful but exquisitely true. And I owe her an apology. I sit beside her again, head in hands, silently praying for help and guidance. As if in answer, Rita and Norman arrive.

"How is she?" Rita whispers. "We were so hoping she'd be awake to talk."

They follow me out of Shane's room, and I'm shaken with the enormity of all that has transpired. In the empty waiting room, I look at my friends and I nearly lose my composure. They have already seen me at my worst recently; all my pride seems to have flown by the wayside.

"I think I've really mucked things up this time," I say. Norman turns to me, and I feel his comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I don't think there is anything you could do that Shane won't forgive. She's very understanding and kind-hearted, especially with those she cares about."

"Yes," says Rita. "I know her very well. Besides Norman, and well, you, Oliver, she is my dearest friend in the whole world. I can't imagine she will stay mad at you for long, whatever you have done."

I allow both of them to hug me, and it feels so good to have the comfort of a human touch. I know God has been listening when Dad arrives at that precise moment, and, without asking what has happened, he embraces me too. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and we all sit down in the places we've occupied for so many hours.

"What's happened?" Dad finally asks.

I haltingly explain everything, and my tale is met with appropriate grimaces, nods of understanding, and expressions of deep concern.

"You both have made some very valid points," says Rita diplomatically.

"I think you and Shane are way too emotional right now to be talking about such important things . When you see her again, you might want to stick to the weather." Dad gives me a wry smile, which I return appreciatively.

"It's like what they say about making important decisions after a traumatic experience, how you should well, not do that," offers Norman.

Besides Shane, these are the people I love the most, and their advice is sound and full of love, for both of us. As I sit there in the bland, stifling waiting room, I feel the weight—both physically and mentally-of Shane's letters in my suit jacket pocket.

Read my letters.

That's what she'd said to me right before she fell asleep. Her wishes couldn't be more clear, and I'm no longer violating Subsection 1710. Suddenly, I have the urgent need to get out of here, to go outside and breathe fresh air. Not to escape Shane, but to find her again—in her letters.

"Dad, could you stay for a bit, at least until Mrs. McInerney or I return? I need to get some air."

"Sure, Son. Whatever you need."

"We'll all stay," adds Rita.

I look at them with all the love and gratitude in my heart. "Thank you."

It seems to take forever for the elevator to make it to the first floor, but then I am there, and walking quickly through the lobby, out the doors, and into the spring afternoon. There is a small park across the street, and there are several hospital workers in scrubs taking a break, eating out of plastic containers at the scattered picnic tables, or even on blankets in the grass. An orderly is pushing a patient in a wheelchair along a hedge-lined path. I find an empty bench amidst a grove of white-barked aspen trees. It overlooks a small, clear pound with a fountain in the middle, where large, orange, white and black koi swim about beneath the surface, a family of ducks paddling and quacking above. The great Rockies, still capped with snow, loom in the distance beneath a beautiful azure sky.

It is in this idyllic spot that I settle onto the bench, and take a few cleansing breaths while I admire the scenery and listen to the peaceful flutter of the leaves overhead. It is pleasantly warm with the promise of summer, and I feel some of the heaviness lift from my soul. Being in nature is sometimes better than being in church, I muse, if only because one feels closer to Him surrounded by the wonders of His creation.

I take out the packet of Shane's letters, and I begin again with the first one written in her neat, feminine hand. I feel her fear, and her longing, and yes, her own regrets about leaving me. Sometimes she recalls our adventures together at the DLO, like that wonderful, terrible day we were trapped in a bank vault together, or the time we reunited a young girl with her MIA mother. Her work with Steve is important, she says, but she feels strongly the import of what we do, as well. Sometimes her words are wrought with despair, and I feel the anger and helplessness that I wasn't there for her, that Marek had put her in that position.

But I calm myself, take another breath of the fresh air, and read on. With each vivid letter I feel my doubts draining away. Her love for me is there in every page, though I'm sure she would have felt it too forward to express it plainly in a letter when she hasn't yet said it to me in person. But it's there just beneath the surface, written with the unmistakable fine-tipped gray ink of my grandfather's pen. I recall what she said to me the night she left, as we stood on her front porch in the cool night, our recent kiss still foremost in our minds:

Tell him not to be too hard on himself. She knew that he loved her. She knew.

She had been referring to Gabe, but of course she'd been talking about me. It hadn't completely registered with me then; things had happened so fast and my brain had been on overdrive. The fact that she'd guessed my true feelings for her put an entirely different light on her letters. She was writing to someone she knew was in love with her, but who was obviously too afraid to tell her in so many words because he'd been hurt so many times in the past. It wasn't just her hesitation at overstepping that had caused her to hold her own feelings back; she was being careful so that she wouldn't scare me away. She knows me so well it seems, my wonderful, maddening, incredibly perceptive Shane.

I don't know how long I sit there and read (and sometimes re-read), but the sun is much lower and the air has grown cooler when I finally return the last letter to its envelope and stand on legs that had long ago grown numb. I'm the only one left in the park, and as I shake out the pins and needles, the pain feels almost invigorating. I am alive, it seems to say, and so, thank God, is Shane. Why are we—am I—wasting all this time and energy with regrets and anger and jealousy?

This is the day which the Lord hath made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.*

I walk back to the hospital with a cleansed spirt and new determination. I love Shane, and she loves me, and everything else is just background noise, like muzak in an elevator, the sound of a hospital monitor, or the ticking of a pocket watch.

A/N: Okay, one more, one more chapter, lol. Also, I've struggled with the time of year when this takes place. Is it fall? Spring? I've gone back and forth, but I believe I started on spring and so I'm sticking to it, though now I wonder if it was actually fall. Anyway, if I've gotten that wrong, I hope you'll forgive me and just go with it. As for the letters, I have refrained from writing the specific contents because I don't think I could do them justice, and I'm fearful they might meander or be boring. In the words of Shane McInerney, "Chicken." I definitely own that. Thanks so much for reading. Please let me know what you think.

*Psalm 118:24