Author's Note: Well… Another year and no new SSD. I am currently sighing like some Victorian heroine. So, here I am again filling the dreaded silence with more Christmas ramblings. Merry Christmas Postables.

Another Very O'Toole Christmas

One Fraught Friday in September

Oliver was attempting to complete some very uninspiring paperwork, but every so often, his attention was claimed by his wife. Shane was standing at her desk, her focus alternating between the screen of her computer, and some deep thought that had her staring into the far distance. With a snap, Oliver closed his timepiece. Four o'clock in the afternoon. One hour until he could take his wife home and find out what was going on.

Five o'clock eventually arrived, and Shane and Oliver collected their belongings and walked to the parking garage. An early morning meeting had meant that the couple travelled separately, Shane deciding that extra sleep was more appealing than starting her workday early and therefore making her own way to Denver Main Branch at a much more respectable hour.

Oliver walked Shane to her vehicle. He opened the door for her, and helped her inside. Before closing the door, he gave her a piercing look, and began to speak.

'Shane…' he began…

'Oliver, I know. We need to talk.'

Shane flashed him a small grin. She reached up and patted the hand that was still resting on the open car door. 'Don't overthink it, Oliver. You haven't done anything, but we really do need to talk. I'll see you at home. I just have to make a small detour on the way.'

Oliver looked momentarily confused.

'I need chocolate … quite serious, good chocolate.'

With that, Shane blew her husband a kiss and closed the door. He waited until she had driven away before he made his way to his own car.

Shane opened the door, smiling as she heard the low sound of some depressing (or so Shane thought) classical music coming from the living room. Faure? As she kicked off her shoes, hung up her coat and checked the hall mirror to ensure there was no trace of already inhaled chocolate remained, all the while grinning at her husband's very different taste in music. He found solace in some French romantic composer's dirge, whereas she had been rocking out with an 80s hair band in the car. Flicking her hair, and squaring her shoulders, she made her way to the living room to share her unsettling news.

Shane took in the scene before her. Oliver was seated on the couch, a book in his hands. She noted he had removed his jacket and tie and rolled-up his sleeves. He placed a bookmark into the tome, then raised an eyebrow as he watched Shane walk past him towards the ..?

Shane lifted the needle from the record and turned off the turntable. Grinning, Shane turned and made her way towards him.

'Come on, Oliver,' she began, 'It's not that bad. That music sounds like the cat died!'

With a sigh, he replied, 'We don't have a cat.'

'Lucky, or it was a goner for sure!'

With that, Shane removed the book from his hand and gracefully snuggled at his side, ready to share her unwelcome revelation.

Shane took a deep breath, then reached out to play with his suspender.

'So …' Shane began, 'I received a phone call this morning.' Oliver watched the emotions that played across her features. He thought that it must not be awful news, but rather news that Shane didn't want. He waited, encouraging her with a look to continue.

'It was my mother, of course.' The end of that sentence was said with some snark.

'She started talking a thousand words a minute, as she does,' and I think I must have lapsed into a word-induced coma, because before I could say more than an occasional hmm, she had invited herself for Christmas!'

Shane let out a huge rush of air. 'And she's staying for ten days!'

'Ten days, Oliver.' The words came out as a wail.