Fic: Rookie Blue
Title: Easy Like Sunday Morning
Fandom: Rookie Blue
Pairing: Sam/Andy
Summary: Just a Sunday morning breakfast on a day off-duty.
Word Count: ~1200
Rating: PG
Juggling two cups of Timmy's finest and a copy of The Toronto Star, Sam pushes open the front door in time to hear a thump and muffled curse coming from the direction of the kitchen. He starts to nudge the door closed, but the latch gets stuck on the doorjamb-and yeah, replacing that lock has been on his to-do list for a while now-so he gives in and kicks the door shut.
Inside, he toes off his sneakers distractedly, already calling down the hall.
"Andy?"
"It's okay," she yells back.
Sam catalogs her tone reflexively. She doesn't sound tense or pained, so he drops the newspaper on the entry table carelessly, before wandering in the direction of her voice, coffees in hand.
She's stirring a bowl of something by the stove, messy hair pulled back off her face and tan legs for miles, dancing along to some imaginary beat. Sam smiles, hopelessly fond, even as he clears his throat to announce his presence.
Andy looks up without breaking her pace, shaking her hips and bursting into song mid-verse.
"Ooh, that's why I'm easy. Easy like Sunday morning," she warbles.
Sam instantly recognizes the lyrics; Frank's been on a Lionel Richie kick for the past few weeks, playing Lionel's greatest hits in both his office and in the meeting room before parade. But Sam's pretty sure that this particular song doesn't actually have an upbeat, hip-shaking tempo, not that he's complaining. Obviously.
He watches her silently for a minute, enjoying the way his sleep shirt barely skims the tops of her thighs, before leaning in to kiss her good morning.
"Uh-uh", she says, grinning and holding out her hands in expectation.
Sam rolls his eyes, handing her one of the two steaming cups. He'd gotten her a hazelnut latte, the only kind of coffee she likes to drink when off-duty. She makes a show of taking the lid off and sniffing first, as if he's ever gotten her order wrong on accident, before finally taking a long sip, face going slack with pleasure.
"Perfect," she murmurs, tilting her face up for a hello now that her caffeine habit has been provided for. She clearly means for it to be a quick peck, but he follows her lips, using his free hand to cup her jaw and deepen the kiss.
Andy pulls away lazily, eyes still closed. "Mmm. Good morning."
Sam looks at her--cheeks slightly flushed from the heat of the stove, flour dust in her hair, and happy, so effortlessly happy--and has to kiss her again. Because now he can. He’s pretty much always wanted to; maybe not when she was actively ruining eight months of undercover work, but definitely by the time she’d offered to buy him a drink at the Penny.
You’re not my type. Damn if that hadn’t been the biggest lie he hadn’t even realized that he was telling.
Moving back, he leans against the counter and Andy returns to the stove, coffee still clutched in her hand with a death grip.
"You cooking me breakfast McNally?"
She scoffs, pouring batter onto the griddle one-handed. "What does it look like, Sam?"
He smirks, finally taking a sip of his own coffee. Black, thanks very much. He'd trained himself out of needing anything else years ago. "Well, it looks like you're making enough food for about seven people," he says eyeing the large stack of pancakes on a plate near the griddle.
She huffs, but Sam can't see her face to tell if she's truly exasperated or just faking. "I spilled some of the mix and I didn't want to waste it."
This can only mean pancakes for lunch and maybe even enough to refrigerate for tomorrow's breakfast too. Sam isn't exactly thrilled with that idea. He already eats too much under Andy's eagerly expectant gaze and then spends the rest of the day feeling full in a way that should really only be associated with major holidays. But he knows that she has a thing about home-cooked breakfasts whenever time allows, and that Callahan apparently hadn't cared enough to humor it.
Still, he hides his wince behind a gulp of coffee before managing a smirk. "That's a smart idea. Very economical."
Andy snorts, clearly not buying what he's trying to sell. "Sound a little more convincing next time. You do work undercover."
"How about this?" He clears his throat importantly and she turns from the burner to eye him skeptically. "I like it when you're still here in the morning and we have time to eat breakfast together," he says, completely truthful.
Her eyes soften as she turns around to flip the last pancake. "Even when I force-feed you pancakes?"
Sam laughs. "Especially then."
"Good answer."
She smirks suddenly, mischievous. "Lucky for you, Jerry's coming by in a few minutes to pick up the majority of these."
Sam barely manages to hide a sigh of relief. He loves a warm meal as much as the next man, but sometimes, a guy just wants some coffee.
"Since when are you making breakfast for Jerry?" he asks, confused.
"Since Traci invited him to the weekly Nash Sunday brunch with her mom, two aunts, and grandma."
He whistles. "Yeah, that guy's going to need all the help he can get."
Andy shrugs. "That's what Traci figured, but she ran out of time to make them. Hence, pancake mountain over here. But it's not like I mind helping them out."
Sam nods absently, draining the last of his coffee as he watches Andy prepare a plate for Jerry to take with him.
He's struck suddenly by how right it feels to have Andy in his house, wearing his t-shirt, casually cooking them breakfast like she’s been doing it for years. But he’s not a chauvinist; positions reversed, he could make a mean spinach omelet while she read the Star sports section and then the classifieds.
Sam spares a glance at her, but she's oblivious, rinsing out the mixing bowl and completely unaware of his thoughts. Which was probably for the best. In the early days, McNally had undeniably been a potential flight risk. She’s relaxed a lot in the last few months, but he doesn't want to fuck up the groove they've created by getting too, I-want-to-grow-old-with-you, serious on her this early in their relationship.
Letting his mind wander for a second, Sam can picture it. A few years down the road, living together for real, probably married, and eventually, a couple of kids, with family breakfasts on shared days off duty…
He looks around the kitchen, imagination running free for one last second, before he reels it in, content to live in the moment.