A/N: This story takes place during "One in a Million," although I skip the events surrounding Curley and the stolen mail and only briefly refer to Nikki's hunt for her lottery letter. This comes from my impatience to get Shane and Oliver together sooner, so I've invented an AU scenario to help them on their way.
The Bet
Chapter 1
Tension was running high among the POstables in the Denver DLO. Shane was still hurt and fuming after a disappointing first whatever with Oliver, and Norman was fighting a wave of jealousy over the discovery that Rita had once dated a guy named Bob. Everyone seemed a bit off kilter, and tender feelings on everyone's part hovered just beneath the surface as they all tried to keep up a professional façade.
The lemon curd on the cake was when their waitress from their disastrous dinner at Montaldo's had shown up looking for her lost love letter. Shane returned from her call to the front desk with the story. Any chance of Shane and Oliver forgetting that evening was effectively denied them, and they were forced to focus on the mystery at hand.
"I trust you had her fill out a 1067-E," Oliver said, "while informing her of the near impossibility of retrieving letters once they have been mailed."
"Yes, of course. I wouldn't have given her the form at all, but she was so afraid this letter to her boyfriend where she bravely expressed her true feelings, would leave her mortified that he didn't share them." She pointedly avoided Oliver's eyes, but she felt the heavy weight of his speculative gaze upon her as she began absently sorting through the Impossibly Ripped and Mangled box.
"Isn't that just the way," Shane continued, to no one in particular. "Men lead you to believe that things are heading in a positive direction, that they are really into you, then suddenly, out of nowhere, they pull the rug from beneath your feet and friend zone you."
"Or go to Antarctica," Rita added, taking on her own box. Rita missed Norman's frown at her words.
"It seems to me that the whole dating thing just isn't worth the trouble," Shane said, feeling her eyes water despite herself. She quickly blinked them away. "I mean, why do we need to put ourselves through it, when we can live perfectly fulfilling lives without all the heartache?"
"Indeed," said Oliver, staring with his magnifying glass at a manilla envelope that had seen better days. "Especially when some women seem to believe vows are merely suggestions, or when they have a favorite restaurant, they use to disappoint multiple men's hopes even before they've finished their amuse-bouche." At this, Oliver pointedly raised his magnifier like a quizzing glass, focusing in on a flushed and angry Shane.
Oblivious to the bubbling current between his friends, Norman glanced casually at Rita. "I've also heard of women who send monthly payments to people named Bob while keeping that info from their boyfriends."
Rita gasped. "Norman!"
The four POstables paused, glaring at one another over their boxes of IRMs, each secretly feeling as torn up and rejected as dead letters.
"Well," Shane said, breaking the silence through gritted teeth. "Rita, I think you and I are perfectly capable of dealing with our boxes alone, don't you? Without anyone else needlessly making things more—complicated than they have to be."
But while she was speaking to Rita, her eyes continued to shoot daggers at Oliver, her hands gripping the sides of her box like a lifeline.
"Oh really?" challenged Oliver. "Well, I think that you and I, Norman, are much better suited to dealing with such serious matters without any outside—manipulations."
"Or withholding of relevant information," added Norman.
"Yes, quite right," Oliver agreed.
"And I bet that Rita and I can finish our boxes faster than you and Norman."
"Ha," scoffed Oliver. "We will gladly take that wager. Let's make it interesting, shall we?"
"Sure. I'm game."
By this point, the squared off pair seemed to have forgotten all about Rita and Norman, who were already looking at each other with soft, apologetic smiles. But at Shane's clipped response, their attention was brought back to their friends, and Norman and Rita realized, with sinking hearts, that they were about to be helplessly embroiled in an impromptu battle of the sexes.
Oliver stubbornly crossed his arms across his chest, rocked back on his heels once in thought. "The winners will…donate one-hundred dollars to the charity of the losers' choice."
Shane nodded, unconsciously mirroring his pose. "Ok. That's a nice idea. We could handle that, right Rita?"
"Yes, of course, if it's after pay—" Rita began, but Shane cut her off.
"It's a start, Oliver. But I propose something to help us understand each other a bit better, make this a learning experience."
Shane stepped around the table and stood before Oliver now with nothing tangible between them. Oliver could smell her sweet floral perfume, could see the sparks alight in her deep blue eyes, and for a moment he was quite distracted.
"If—when you lose," she continued, "I get to ask you three questions, to which you must give me three truthful, unvarnished answers."
It took a beat for Oliver to catch up, and when it sank in what she'd suggested, his heart leapt, and one eyebrow rose skeptically. "To what end?"
"Just as I said. To clear the air, to cut through all the nonsense and miscommunication that seems to have gotten in our way lately."
"And this of course would be your penalty as well, correct? I would get to ask you whatever I like when you lose."
"Naturally," she said, looking up into his face with such an expression of determination that he very nearly smiled.
But to say such forced openness made Oliver uncomfortable was an understatement. He glanced at the four filled boxes of undeliverable mail. He'd gotten very used to having Shane's help on her computer, especially with the more difficult cases, not to mention Rita's knowledge about postal history in conjunction with her photographic memory. It had been a long time since he'd had to tackle such a task without them. Truth be told, he wasn't nearly as confident as his bravado would suggest. Still, the bet and its rewards seemed too intriguing to resist, especially if he might receive some clue, some insight into what made Shane McInerney tick.
He held out his hand. "It's a bet," he said, before her warm hand slid into his. He felt the shock of her touch to his toes, and her eyes widened as she experienced it too, but they shook hands once to firmly seal the deal, releasing each other as if they'd been burned.
"We should probably set some ground rules," Norman said, surveying the boxes he'd brought in earlier, at Oliver's request to get an early start on the previous month's IRMs.
"Quite right," agreed Oliver. "For instance, should there be a time limit?"
"We usually get until the end of the month to go through these," said Rita, gingerly picking up a damaged letter, no doubt having gotten stuck in a sorting machine.
"No," Shane replied. "The first pair to finish their two boxes wins." They all nodded in agreement.
"Can we work round the clock until we're finished?" asked Rita.
Oliver shook his head. "We quit no later than five o'clock each evening," he proclaimed, noting with amusement how Shane's face fell at the suggestion. She'd obviously had plans to work overtime to win the bet.
"I think that's a good idea," Norman said. "Rita and I have plans tonight—"
"No fraternizing with the enemy, Norman," said Shane. "While the bet is on, we stay with our partners—men on one side, women on the other."
"Just like the Puritans in church," supplied Norman helpfully.
Rita covered her snicker of laughter behind a fake cough, and she and Norman looked at each other with laughing eyes.
"Agreed," said Oliver. "We also must remind ourselves when to decide when a letter may be declared completely dead."
"Because there's a difference between mostly dead, and all dead," Rita said, paraphrasing one of her favorite movies. Only Norman grinned at her joke, for their attempt to lighten the current mood in the DLO was failing miserably.
Norman took on his Encyclopedia Brown persona: "According to Postal Code 1031-A, a letter or parcel may only be declared irrevocably dead if all attempts to decipher any addresses or identifying marks, both internally and externally, have failed. Irrevocably dead letters are subject to timely disposal, or contents sent to auction should they still be deemed valuable."
"Thank you, Norman," said Shane, truly impressed. "So we are trusting each other to have done our level best to redirect the mail before giving up too easily in order to lighten our boxes."
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Naturally, Ms. McInerney, we are bound by our honor as well as our oath to the United States Postal Service to continue to do our jobs to the best of our ability. I trust that nothing will change in the course of this wager."
"Like I said," she concurred. "Are there any other rules we should discuss?"
"No, I think we've covered everything." He looked around at his team with mixed emotions. He liked and respected them all; indeed, his feelings for Shane had slipped into dangerous territory, despite the disappointing dinner Saturday night.
"Should we shoot off a starter gun?" asked Norman. "I believe we have one somewhere around here…"
"I don't think that will be necessary," Oliver said wryly.
"Ok, let's pick up our boxes and move to opposite ends of the office, Rita," said Shane.
The women grabbed their boxes and moved to the table near the door and her computer, while Oliver and Norman stayed at the table closest to Oliver and Norman's desks.
"Rita, will you do the honors?" prompted Oliver.
"On your marks…get set…go!"
At that moment, Oliver and Shane looked across the room at each other, the start of the competition lifting their spirits, despite their heated debate just minutes before. A small smile ghosted over his lips, and Shane smiled back in spite of herself. With a slight nod, Oliver silently wished Shane well. He was heartened when she nodded back.
And so, Oliver thought, in the words of Shakespeare, "The game is afoot."
A/N: More to come. I'd love to hear your thoughts!
