Fic: christmas morning, back from the war (Rookie Blue, Sam/Andy)
Title: christmas morning, back from the war
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 10,163
Summary: The one on the kitchen floor.
Author's Note: Can’t stop won’t stop, apparently.
She's quiet most of the car ride home (home-home, finally, even though it's probably covered in dust, nothing in the fridge, and crap, seriously, what is he even going to feed her?). It's eerie, especially after all that chatter in the cover apartment--no fiddling with the radio presets, nothing. She keeps looking at him like he shot her dog, or she shot his. (And he gets it, he does. They're--well. It was a pretty monumental fuck-up, all told.) Finally Sam takes her hand at a red light on Dufferin, tells her they're going to be fine.
Oddly enough, that's what finally makes her burst into tears. Like, big, ugly, all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips sobs.
"Sam--" and he can barely hear her, she's crying so hard. "You could have died." Her nose is all snotty.
And Sam knows he shouldn't be smiling at her--J.D.'s a gentleman, holds my hand, brings me juice in bed--but he's not dead, is the thing. He's not dead, and she's not dead. No one is dead, and he's pretty sure she obliquely agreed to date him in the parking lot.
So.
Sam squeezes her hand, thumb stroking lightly at the inside of her wrist. “McNally,” he says, voice quiet. It’s stupid how much he wants to get his arms around her. “You hungry?”
Andy blinks at him, snuffles a couple of times. “Yeah,” she says finally--and christ, she sounds so impossibly young. “A little.”
They’re actually not the weirdest-looking people at the twenty-four hour grocery store in the middle of the night, but Sam thinks they probably come close--Andy all red-eyed and splotchy, him with his face beat half to hell. (She shops in a meandering, counterproductive way, carrots and beer and fruit snax, zigzagging all over the store. Twenty minutes in and there’s nothing in their cart that even remotely resembles dinner.)
“Moving in?” he asks, as she tosses in a giant box of Frosted Flakes, and for a second she looks so completely stricken that Sam laughs.
“Shut up,” she says, when she realizes he’s kidding. Her voice is still a little phlegmy. “I’m trying to be normal.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam takes the cereal out of her hand, throws it in the cart on top of some underripe bananas. “How’s that working out for you so far?”
She looks from him to the mess of processed junk in the child seat, makes a face. "I'm getting orange juice," she announces, nose in the air. So. Back they go to the drinks aisle then.
He selects grape, just to piss her off (“Seriously, Sam, only five-year-olds drink that.”). She's smiling again, thank god; Sam was this close to doing a bit with cucumbers.
Finally, after their fifth trip down the cereal aisle, Sam takes control of the situation, picking up a chicken breast and some stir-fry vegetables in quick succession (for tomorrow--tonight he's making her pancakes, he doesn't even care, it's nearly one in the morning).
"Broccoli?" She wrinkles her nose (only the slightest bit red now).
So.
Probably she'll even prefer the pancakes, then.
They get the groceries out to the truck (not before a ridiculous farcical exchange over who's going to carry the bags, Andy loading herself down with them, plastic handles biting into the crook of her elbow: "Sam, your hand--"
Sam rolls his eyes and grabs three of them, and if the pain sings up his arm a little, it feels like a small price to pay not to scare her.)
She drops the bags on the floor of the cab, is about to slide into the passenger seat when Sam slips two fingers into her belt loop and yanks, pushes her up against the side of the truck (he just--he thinks it's possible there's a window here, and he's really, really done missing chances). She tastes like dried-up tears. "Hey," he mutters, wind biting cold at the back of his neck and one knee slipping between hers. "Thanks for, uh. Tracking me down."
She screws up her face like she's maybe going to cry again; puts her mouth in a hard line and doesn't. "Don't. Sam, seriously--"
"No, you seriously." His hands are suddenly shaking, here in some 24-hour Metro parking lot, and he's got to tell her--something. "McNally. It could have been either of us." (The dizzying relief is hitting him all over again, that moment when he climbed into the cruiser and realized he hadn't believed Brennan, not really, when he'd said she was fine.)
She's got her hands up under his jacket, cold fingers sliding across his back. "Yeah, okay." Like she doesn't believe him, but desperately wants to be talked into it. Then: "What about me?" she asks, muscling him closer--he's got to be crushing her against the car a little bit, but McNally doesn't seem to care. "Would you have found me?"
Sam rolls his eyes, because the actual answer to that question is or gotten myself killed trying, and yeah, not scaring her. "Yeah, sweetheart," he tells her (and the sweetheart, that's new, a J.D. thing he guesses is gonna stick). "I'd have found you."
McNally grins, big like Christmas (and this girl, Sam swears to god, he can't decide if he wants to zip her inside his jacket or get his mouth between her legs or sleep for thirteen hours with her stretched out on the mattress next to him. He thinks it's possible he wants all those things equally). "Good," she says. "That's what I thought."
He kisses her again, good hand curled around the back of her skull--a little sloppier, further into her mouth until he gets a whimper out of her. Then he smiles. "McNally," he mutters, right in her ear. "Get in the car."
This time, the ride isn't so quiet. She's chatty; Best's face when she told him, Brennan down by the docks ("but I stayed in character--god, Sam, I thought for sure he was gonna make me"). The box of Frosted Flakes is clamped between her knees--every few words and she swallows a handful, dry, and Sam would roll his eyes except for the part where she puts a few in his palm and he totally eats them, he's that hungry.
They get the groceries inside (Sam lets her take a few more this time, hand stiff all the way to his wrist; she doesn't mention it), and yeah, he was right, dust on everything. McNally opens up the fridge and laughs, shoves a mostly-empty container of cranberry juice at his chest. She's got this face, good-natured resignation, like she's shoring up for a future of unsatisfactory juice selections, and that--well. Sam rinses out the jug for the recycling bin, smiling at nothing.
"Don't look at your phone," Andy says then, completely out of the blue. "Or, well, okay, look at it, but like." She makes a face. "Don't check your messages."
"Why?" he asks, grabbing it off the table where it's sitting on top of an electric bill that's definitely overdue at this point. It's dead, so he plugs it in (charger right where he left it, that weird sensation of time passing but also not-- last time he came back from eight months under and found a shit ton of laundry in the hamper he'd forgotten to do before he left) and hits the button for voicemail. "Candice from Appleton a drunk dialer?"
"No, Sam, seriously, I'm not--" And she actually lunges for it, is the thing, like she's going to wrench it clear out of his hand, which--
"What the hell, McNally?" Sam laughs a little, ducks out of her way (too fast, maybe; his ribs are protesting, for sure). Andy looks like she wishes the universe would swallow her whole.
Well. Now he's curious.
It's the first message in the queue, so he must have just missed her: good candy and some reference to champagne he doesn't get and coming over.
Let’s make ‘em count.
Sam blinks and looks across the kitchen. It is really, really obvious that she wishes she were dead.
"McNally," he says quietly, and he knows he shouldn't grin at her but he just--he's in trouble, is the thing. "Did you come here?"
She shifts her weight, toeing at the linoleum at bit. "Um." (And jesus god, she's actually blushing, all across her nose and cheeks and the tips of her ears, like Sam's never seen. "I didn't make you for shy"; well yeah, okay, but apparently--) "Maybe?"
"Maybe." He puts the phone down, starts inching across the tile; like trying not to spook a horse. "So what you're saying is I picked a bad, bad time to go under?"
She shrugs and leaves her shoulders up, hunched. "Pretty much?" Her face is the picture of misery. Sam cannot, cannot, cannot stop grinning.
"How long did you wait around?" (He hopes not long, but well--he has been waiting around for a while, metaphorically speaking, and it's just--) Only that earns him an embarrassed whine, high-pitched around his name. He changes tactics. "What made you change your mind?" He's close now, arms coming up to trap her against the counter.
McNally changes tactics, too. "Who says I changed my mind?" she counters bossily, a smart little twist of her mouth. "Maybe I just came over to almost-but-not kiss you some more."
"Yeah, well." Sam snorts (he earned that one, he guesses); gets closer. "You're good at that."
"I'm great at that," Andy corrects automatically. She's holding her ground, not leaning one way or the other. She smells like body spray and skin.
"Mm." He nods--eyebrows up, patient. "You're doin' it right now."
Andy huffs a little. "I thought about you, okay?" she says finally, and the way she's so annoyed, it's--yeah. "Is that what you want to hear? I thought about you, and I didn't want you to go and do that stupid thing with stupid Boyd. Who, I would like to add, I always knew was a creep, so. "
So.
"Yeah," he tells her, nodding a bit (and god, he really, really needs to quit smiling). "That's basically what I wanted to hear."
"Well," she says snottily. "Good for you."
"Good for me." Sam waits until he's got his chest right up against hers, until he can feel her warm breath on his lips--then pulls back, all at once. "Okay," he says, strictly business--almost, but not. "Pancakes."
She glowers at him--eyes narrowed and everything, an eight-grader with a bad attitude--but there's no real heat. Sam figures it's twenty percent exhaustion, eighty percent the promise of food. Still, when she boosts herself up on the counter, watches him measure out the flour ("Aren't you going to use a mix?"; ten, fifteen seconds where they stare at each other in mutual disbelief), she adds, "You keeping doing my bit and I'm going to have to do yours. Skip town. Leave no forwarding address."
"Funny." He's handed her a whisk and the wet ingredients, but so far she isn't doing much. He gives her knee a squeeze, skinny under her jeans. "McNally. Stir."
"I'm stirring." She pokes morosely at the egg yokes; brightens. "Hey, you have any chocolate chips?"
Twelve years old, Sam swears. "It's after midnight."
"What?" She laughs. "What's next? Can't expose me to bright lights or get me wet either?" At his blank stare, she rolls her eyes. "Gremlins, Sam, seriously. It's like you were raised in a box."
More like a decade and a bit before her, but fine. "I know the important things." And then, because it's late and he can: "Pretty sure I can get you wet. Just saying."
She gapes at him for a second, eyes widening like he's offended her delicate sensibilities (which, nice try, but he's gotten her to bed twice now, and her sensibilities--they're, uh. Not that delicate).
After a beat she recovers, smirks at him, whisks a little. "Sounds sort of overconfident to me, Swarek."
"Oh yeah?" Sam drops some butter in the pan, watches it sizzle. "That a challenge?"
She shrugs. "Take it however you want. I'm just sharing an observation."
"Be sure and put it in your report." Sam grins once. "You really want me to kiss you, huh."
She hands him her bowl, cool as you please. "I don't want anything." Bossy, sure, but she's got a smile not-quite-hiding somewhere in there, and honestly, if he hadn't just poured out some of the batter--
(She smiled at him a lot, is the thing, in J.D.'s crappy cover house. Sam can't figure out if it's just that she gets giddy after an orgasm, or if it's-- something else.)
"Do you not want pancakes, then?" He gestures with the spatula, all faux-geniality and concern. "Because I can stop."
"Oh, ha-ha." She slides her ass along the counter, closer to the stove. "You don't feed me, and I'm going to eat you." He raises an eyebrow and she kicks him, none too gently. "Cannibalism, Sam. Not the fun kind."
"There's a fun kind of cannibalism?" He's got her bony foot trapped between his arm and rib-cage; she tugs but he gets a hand around her ankle, holds her there. "You gonna behave?"
"You gonna make me?" she fires back immediately--and yeah, pancakes or not, that's a dare. Sam looks her up and down for a minute, slow enough to make her squirm: the faint curve of her rib cage, the neckline of her shirt. There are three big freckles slung low on her left hipbone, is a fact he learned about her recently--beauty marks, really, like points on a map. They're--they're not a bad way to punctuate a body, is all he's saying. "I'm thinking about it," he tells her eventually, and strokes his thumb along the violent jut of her ankle before he lets her go.
He grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard and hands her the first pancake--it's a little dark, maybe, but not bad considering he wasn't really, uh. Paying attention. "Forks in the drawer behind you," he says, which turns out to be pointless: Andy pours a puddle of syrup right in the middle, folds it in half, and stuffs the whole thing into her mouth. He's pretty sure she doesn't even chew.
"Nice," he says, watching. Andy grins.
"Hurry up." She nudges at him with a foot. "I want another one." All young and sassy and 360 different kinds of bold; Sam bets her high school boyfriends all did exactly what she said. When he looks over, she widens her eyes at him: make me.
Well.
That's how he ends up spending the next ten minutes cooking and eating a single pancake, McNally all over him, laughing and whining and generally just using a whole lot of language Sam's doesn’t hear outside of poker games much. (And it's a common enough expression, you kiss your mother with that mouth, but. Sam looks at her. Doesn't say it.)
"Happy?" he asks, when she finally crams her second pancake in. She nearly climbed over him to make it, sharp knees against his ribs and bruises singing all the way around, like a vice. (He let her do it, though. Doesn't need her treating him like glass.)
"Uh-huh." She grins at him, sweet and easy. "Hurry up."
Sam looks down at his half-eaten pancake (he cut it into the tiniest pieces possible, was just a third into it when she literally growled at him, "I'll do it myself", long lean over and her breasts pressing against his arm as she reached for the spatula). "What, you want more?"
"Sam." She hooks a leg around him, turns off the stove with her toes. "Hurry up."
Oh.
That kind of hurry up.
"Something you need, McNally?" he asks, getting closer; she makes a face like she can't believe he's still giving her a hard time, is halfway through an eye-roll when he gets his mouth on hers. McNally squeaks, a little. Sam tastes syrup and sweat. Her fingers are sticky at his jawline, and Sam sucks at them until they're clean.
He wants her--he doesn't know if it's this day or what, but suddenly he just--would really, really like to feel all of her, is the thing. She's inching toward the edge of the counter--the height is okay, actually, he thinks he can probably work with this--but when she gets his shirt up over his head McNally actually gasps, so.
There's that.
"Don't," he says, right away--and yeah, it looks sort of bad now, black and blue all up and down his rib cage, places that are scraped a little more raw than he thought. Sam shakes his head. "McNally." He's trying for his T.O. voice (don't think just listen I'm not here to hold your hand) because she responds to that, generally, but he must miss because the look she gives him is just-- "Don't."
"I'm not." Andy blinks and recovers, swallows hard. "Dumbass," she tells him, shoving at his shoulders a little (gentle, though, careful; not enough to hurt). "Why'd you let me climb all over you like that?"
He shrugs. "It's not that bad." Because, hey, if nothing else is selling might as well try straight-up lies. Only that doesn't work on her either (of course, no way it would, she's so stubborn it's stupid).
"Dumbass," she says again, but with this face like she isn't joking. "Shouldn't this get you, like, worker's comp or something?" And she's counting up his ribs now, just lightly, fingers barely touching down.
His voice comes out too quiet. "Not with the suspension."
"Oh. Well." She brings her head-up, finally meets his eyes, face smoothed over into the picture of earnestness. "Don't worry--if you get put on permanent disability, we'll manage somehow. I'll work two shifts, we'll pinch pennies... no more frivolous juice purchases--"
God, laughing hurts. "You're insane, you know that?"
She's fighting a grin, getting into it now. "Either way, honey, I'll take care of you." Taking his head in her hands like she's the man and he's the woman. "We'll make it."
This girl. "Insane."
"You like it," she says, all confidence (and he does, he really does, so-- can't argue with her there). "So, um." McNally smoothes her palms over his shoulders, thumbs lightly at a reddish welt on his chest. "Do you want to just, like--" (her gaze slips down again, somewhere in the neighborhood of his sternum)--"watch a movie?"
Sam almost laughs--she's just so full of crap, is the great thing, like a sixteen year old boy whose prom date just stopped him at second base. "Yeah, for sure," he says seriously. "Maybe if we're real lucky, Gremlins will be on."
It takes her a second to realize he's making fun of her. "What?" she demands (and there's that blush again, indignant, her cheeks getting a little rosy. Sam likes that, too). "Well, we can't--not with you--I'm gonna hurt you, Sam."
"You're not gonna hurt me."
"Uh-uh." Andy shakes her head, that hard set of her mouth (she's interested, though; she's still got one leg hooked around his, a little possessive, the arch of her foot flattened against the back of his knee). "Sam--"
"You're not gonna hurt me. Don't be stupid. Lift your arms."
McNally's eyes narrow. "You're stupid," she mutters, but she does what he tells her, so. Maybe the T.O. thing was the way to go after all.
He skims her shirt off, tosses it next to them on the counter. (And she's back to eager in about three seconds, pulling him in, toes curling around the seam of his jeans--Want to watch a movie? Sure, McNally. Sure.) Sam steps up and yeah, this height's going to work. Andy rolls her shoulders back, way too pretty for her own good in a sport bra and jeans; he rubs at the curve of one breast, tight under the fabric. (And that's going to work for Sam too, McNally-in-a-fully-lit-kitchen. He's only seen her in daylight the one time.)
"I don't want to--" She's got her knees at his hips, lightly. "Where else are you bruised?"
Lots of places. Sam slips his fingers through her belt loops, slides her forward until she's right at the edge, denim on denim. "Nowhere important." Pressing himself against her, half-hard already. (She, uh. Really does it for him, McNally.)
"Oh good." She smirks. "I'm just using you for sex, so. You know. Essentials."
Sam runs his hands up and down her stomach, the clean lines of her rib cage. "Oh, I've got your essentials, sweetheart."
McNally grins and snuggles closer, her stomach pressing up against his (and god, she is like--she is warm, all heat and muscle, that lion heart pumping away). She puts her lips against a scrape on his shoulder, buries her face in the crook of his neck--and just, the way she's got her arms around him, tight like she's not letting go--well.
(And all right, look. Sam's a grownup. He can admit to himself when something is a diversion, a fun way to kill time and keep from freezing all winter.
Also, he can admit to himself when it's not.)
They make out for a little while, lazy. They've never done this not on borrowed time. He gets his hand in her hair, tugs a little (she pulls at his to answer, not entirely gentle; Sam grins hard and fast against her mouth). Eventually, McNally starts to whine.
"Andy." He slips his hand under the elastic of the sport bra, fingers rubbing at the faint grooves it leaves in her skin (and like, this thing doesn't even have hooks, it's for gym class or something, Sam doesn't--). He can feel the pleats of her spine against his palm. "Take this off."
She arches a bit under his hands, chest-to-chest, the smooth slide of synthetic fabric; backs up a few feet and hooks her thumbs around the elastic. It gets caught in her hair on the way off, static electricity making the individual strands stand up and cling. She runs a hand through it, makes it messier.
(And uh, messy and shirtless is a look that works on McNally too. She's practically a Calvin Klein ad, except for the part where she's wearing twenty dollar jeans from Old Navy.)
She catches him looking, leans back on her hands. "See something you like, Swarek?" And jesus god, it's such a bad line, sixteen year old boys are smoother, he swears--only okay, yes. Yes he does. (She not really sport bra shaped is the thing, she has, um. Well. She's--different with it off.)
"Yeah." Sam reaches out with his good hand, pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and McNally--well. Her whole body jumps, an electric jolt through the muscles in her stomach. She stays still though, stays sitting back on her hands, eyes wide and interested. Sam gives her the edge of his nail and she whimpers. (And it's something he's been curious about, how rough she'd--
Well.
She whines again, so. That's pretty much his answer.)
Sam glances up at her face, gauging: she's breathing hard, hips coming up and head back against the cupboard, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
("Do that again," she says, bossy; she's got her eyes cast down a little, watching, and that--)
Sam, uh. Does it again.
He wonders for a second if he could get her off like this, before she's even really naked at all, but in the end he doesn't get a chance to find out because just like that she changes her mind and hops off the counter, muscles him back against the door of the fridge (and there's a line with her, Sam's figuring out, where once you cross it it becomes absolutely necessary for her to cross it ten times harder. Which is, uh. Pretty much how they wound up on the floor the other night). He hits with enough force that a couple of takeout menus and an old photo of his sister go fluttering to the tile and before he can stop himself he oofs a little, pain sharp and unpleasant all the way up his back.
Andy realizes, hisses back. "Shit, fuck, sorry," she says immediately, wide-eyed and looking up at him (she's working at the button on his jeans, back on her haunches on his kitchen floor). "Sorry."
Sam laughs (or starts to; the ache in his chest plus the fact that she's got her hand wrapped around his cock, to be completely honest it comes out sort of choked off). "I'll live."
She bites away a sheepish smile, free hand coming up to trace the jut of his hip. "'K, yeah. Wow. Sorry." And Sam gets a kick out of that, how she's cringing in sympathy but also completely not stopping--like she can't help it or wants to distract him, he isn't really sure which. Her fingers tap out a nervous rhythm against his abdomen. "I'll be gentle."
Only then she definitely isn't, swallowing him down with absolutely no preamble; backing off and swallowing less as he gets all-the-way hard. Sam groans before he realizes he's going to do it. "Fuck, Andy." Her mouth is very, very wet.
She hums an answer against his skin, sucks him quick and sloppy, and jesus, she's not being careful enough with her teeth. (Probably on purpose, now that Sam's looking; like she'd maybe be smirking if her mouth wasn't full.) He's got a hand halfway to her head before he stops himself.
Andy pulls off his cock with a smack. "Go for it."
Sam blinks. "What?"
Now she really does smirk. "Go. For it." Nice and clear, lifting her chin in the direction of his hand.
So.
Sam gets that messy hair up off the nape of her neck, makes a loose fist at the back of her skull. For a second he tips his head against the fridge. He's only gonna guide her a little (there's something inexperienced about her mouth, like maybe she hasn't had a whole lot of practice, and oh god in his heaven she is young. Sam tries not to think about it.
He thinks about it anyway.
He really, really shouldn't be as into it as he is.)
She works him deeper again, concentrating like he's seen her do anything difficult, one hand stroking hard at the base. Sam relaxes his grip a little bit, giving her room, only then she glances up at him and rolls her eyes, nudges her head back at his palm until he figures out what she wants.
(And what she wants, apparently, is--
jesus christ, this girl.)
Sam pushes her head down, harder this time, a little rougher. Andy hums a smug little laugh against his cock.
Which--fuck. His skull thuds back against the fridge, magnets rattling, and shit, he doesn't want to like, hurt her or anything, god forbid he make her choke--but then there's the way she's relaxing her mouth, just a bit, lips loose and easy so he can--fuck. He rubs at the curve of her ear, gentle, as if that makes the rest of it any better.
Well. This is proof positive that she trusts him, he guesses, so. There is that.
(And then, of course, he's thinking about it, squad cars and his T.O. voice--she's his fucking rookie for god's sakes, and now he's got her on her knees in his kitchen and--well. The whole thing generally just makes Sam feel like an ass and also, stupidly, does way more for him than it should.
Way more.)
They're in a rhythm now, Andy sucking slow and steady, all the way to the tip of his cock until he shoves her back down, and it's rougher than he's been with anyone. He's got a thumb at the hinge of her jaw so he can feel when she relaxes it, knows when to push.
"Andy." Christ, watching her is just-- "Andy, sweetheart, you've gotta--"
Andy ignores him completely, like she didn't even hear (except he knows she did, the way her grip tightened just then, wet tongue working like she just wants to see if she can get him to--). Sam's pretty sure she's not going to stop unless he stops her. "Andy."
He's not going to last a whole lot longer like this, is the thing, and he doesn't want to--
(he wants to. Fuck, he wants to, and the idea that she's got no qualms about letting him is just--it's--
jesus.)
"McNally." Finally Sam pulls her off him, gentle, tilts her head back until she's looking up. Her pupils are completely, totally blown. "You just--you gotta give me a second, all right?"
Andy grins at him and sits back hard, knees raised and palms flat on the tile. She nudges at his ankle with her foot. "Wouldn't have made you for shy," she says, raising her eyebrows, and wipes at her rosy mouth with the back of her hand.
Sam laughs, flips a fallen takeout menu over with his toes. Looks down at the inelegant sprawl of her body, nipples high and dark. "Yeah, see, I don't think shy's really my problem here."
McNally nods sagely. "Stamina. Stamina is your problem." Just like that, bossy as anything. She squeals before he even lunges at her, pornographic to playground tussling in under 60 seconds, and Sam has no earthly idea what he's going to do with her. (Well, okay, that's not strictly true--his sister's picture on the fridge; we met on the force--but like, short term. Short term he's not sure.
For instance: there's the question of whether to lay her out on the tile or put her over his knee.)
They end up on the floor because Sam's ribs are too sore to force her standing, McNally half-in, half-out of his lap, sharp elbows everywhere. He gets her hands behind her back, holds them there like she's under arrest. "Stamina, huh?"
She grins against his jaw, cheeky. "Just an observation." She scoots forward until he's pressed against the seam of her jeans, rough denim biting at his skin. "So um." She jiggles her wrists under his hold. "You gonna let me go here, officer?"
Sam looks her over (shoulders back and chest pushed way out, a little bit helpless and still that smart-aleck twist of her mouth) and smirks. "Haven't decided."
Andy grumbles at him a bit, fidgeting around in his lap, but--uh. He's pretty sure she's trying for friction more than anything else, so. He keeps her wrists in his busted hand (not hard-- his grip is pretty miserable right now, to tell the truth; earlier he brushed off the idea of an x-ray and somewhere in a back corner of his brain he's wondering if maybe he wasn't the slightest bit hasty), uses his good one to work open the button on her jeans.
(She could get her arms back no problem, if she wanted them.
She doesn't try.)
Sam gets his fingers down into her underwear (neon cotton with little dogs all over them, tenth-grade lingerie), opens her up just a bit-- and she is, uh.
She is wet.
He rubs a little, over her clit and then lower, just circling. Andy squirms in his lap, whines a bit. "Sam..."
"Hm?" Sam mutters. He slides his middle finger lower, not inside but close enough that she bucks. Sam pulls back, grins into her hair. "Gotta tell me what you want."
She butts her head up against his jaw, frustrated. "I want--" She's trying to grind herself on him, but Sam slides his whole hand into her underwear and just cups, blunt pressure. "Dammit, Sam--"
"McNally." He flattens his palm against her clit, still smiling (and it hurts, just a little, the cuts up the side of his face stretching and pulling--but he, uh. Can't seem to stop, so). "What do you want?" She hisses and shoves her hips at him, but he knows it isn't enough for her, sloppy friction with no real focus. His entire palm is wet.
She groans into his neck, not the sexy kind. "God, you're so mean." And Sam's about to say no he isn't, about to laugh and flip his hand, give her something to rub against, except: "Fuck, fine, just--would you please just finger me already?" He thinks she means to sound exasperated, but it comes out schoolmarm-proper, that prissy twist of her mouth. Would he please. Jesus Christ.
"Sure, McNally." He kisses one flushed cheek. "Since you asked so nicely."
He’s going to tease her for it, all that kindergarten politeness--only then he gets two fingers in, slow up to the second knuckle, and she whines at him, sharper and louder and generally just--um. It is a new sound, is all Sam's saying.
So.
Andy fucks herself down onto his fingers, hips working. Sam lets go of her wrists. He's expecting some smartass comment but her hands come up around his neck right away, clutching a little, her fingertips in the hair at his nape. She's still making noise, quieter now, but he wants to hear that whine again so he adds a third finger, slow and steady, then crooks them forward come here.
Bingo.
"Good?" Sam asks (he's still smiling, he can't help it; he'd do this to her their whole suspension if she'd let him). Andy nods into his neck. He nudges her back a little, gets his thumb at a nipple, ducks his head enough to get her into his mouth. He licks for a minute, tries biting, and the gasp she lets out against his skin--well.
Sam bites harder.
She's still working herself on his fingers, more purpose now, not kidding around. Sam grinds the heel of his hand into her clit, gives her pressure, and after another minute--there she goes. "Good girl," he tells her, fingers still moving, Andy whimpering against his skin. "Good girl."
She keeps her head down for a moment, still twitching; huffs a laugh into his shoulder. "Yeah, um. Wow. Okay." She pats blindly for his chest, eyes closed. "Hang on a sec."
She always goes a bit nonverbal, after. Sam extracts his fingers and presses down, wrings the last of the aftershocks out of her. Gets a nice squeak for his troubles. "Take your time." Her back is warm under his hand, the faint grooves where her bra bit in. (And this part right here, when she's quiet and dreamy, breathing gone all slow-- Sam really likes this part.
Sam can imagine liking this part for a long time.)
"Okay," she says after another minute. "Right." She lifts her head and laughs. "God, we always make such a mess."
Sam looks around. There's a takeout menu beside his hip, a magnet by his left foot. Not bad, considering, but--
(The first time, the headboard against the wall, chipped paint--
The second, the oof when they hit the floor and the breath going out of him, Andy whining about her knees and the way she just kept going--)
She has a point.
Sam shifts around underneath her a bit, trying to get comfortable (she's not heavy, exactly, but she's sharp, all knees and tailbone, those skinny hips). He's trying to do it without her noticing, but: "Whoops. Sorry," she says again. She eases out of his lap and lays back, one arm up to pillow her head on (which--off him wasn't exactly where he wanted her to go, but this view is--not bad). She flinches a little when her bare skin hits the tile.
"McNally," he says, smiling a little. "You wanna move someplace that isn't the cold floor?"
"Whatever." Andy shrugs, plants one foot against his chest. "I'm happy here."
Well, then. Sam's happy here too, to tell you the truth; still, for appearance's sake: "Weirdo."
"You are." Andy reaches out and picks the picture of Sarah up off the floor--glances at it for a second, then back at Sam. "She looks like girl you," she says.
Sam snorts. "She'd love to hear that, I'm sure."
"No, she's pretty," Andy says decisively, and if she thinks half-naked on the kitchen tile is an odd venue for a talk about his sister she doesn't show it. "She's, you know. Like. Striking."
Sam's lips twitch. "Striking, huh?" He tugs at the ankle of her jeans until Andy gets the message, lifts her hips to help him out. "That what I am?"
"Shut up. What's your family like?" she asks, as he gets them all the way off her (and, uh. McNally in her underwear on his kitchen floor, legs spread--that's. Something). "Your mom and dad."
Sam collects her ankles in his lap, long toes and gold polish chipping most of the way off. She's got pretty banged-up feet, McNally, like she maybe played high-impact sports all through high school. He thumbs the line of her arch, imagines her in court shoes. "I don't--normal, I guess." Only they weren't, not really, not after Sarah-- "Quiet." A whole minefield of silence, Sam's childhood.
"Quiet." Thoughtful, like she's mulling it over. Then: "What were you like as a kid?" She wiggles a foot out of his hold, gets it back up on his chest; pushes a bit on the you.
Sam grins. "Shorter."
"Hilarious." She cocks her head. "Mmm. I bet you were real serious."
She's not wrong. Still--"I bet you were annoying." He rests her other foot on his collarbone, pulls her toward him a little--and then hey, why not, might as well go for broke. The backs of her knees are cold against his shoulders. "I bet your report cards always said 'Andy is learning to be a better listener'."
"Shut up." She's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth again and yeah, Sam can see it, the tomboy all grown up and sexy. Skinny, for sure. Perpetually falling out of trees.
He kisses the pale strip of skin above her underwear, murmurs, "I bet you were very pretty." He looks up and finds her looking back hard--which, right, of course, it's the first time he's ever said anything about her looks one way or the other. So.
McNally smiles a bit, pleased and maybe a little surprised, like there's an outside chance it honestly never occurred to her that he thinks she's--
seriously, this girl.
(thisgirlthisgirlthisgirl.)
Sam runs his palms up and down the hard length of her thighs, just friendly, rubbing at the muscles under her skin. He wants to give her more time, if she needs it (it's possible he wants to give her, uh. Whatever she wants), but when he presses his mouth against the damp spot on her stupid underwear her hips roll up at him right away, reflexive, so--
break's over, he guesses.
"McNally," he says, mouthing at her a little through the fabric, the smell of cotton and underneath that the smell of her. She glances up at him with a shred of trepidation, like she thinks maybe he's going to make her say what she wants again (and he would, he likes to hear her; at some point he's going to make her talk him all the way through) but just, the way she's pushing at his mouth, a little insistent--Sam pretty much already knows.
He kisses her through the fabric one more time (and like, his lips are brushing against one of those little cartoon dogs, he can't even--), then swings her ankles together, starts to tug. She goes up into an arch to help him, hips and lower back completely off the floor (which is, uh. An interesting position to remember for later). But then he's got her, McNally-naked-next-to-several-artificial-light-sources, and he more or less forgets about anything else.
(She's got a floss of brown curls between her legs; the first time they did this she made a face and apologised, something about "dry spells" and "not expecting", which Sam didn't really follow until he got her naked the second time and she was neater. And that--yeah.
It's not the aesthetic so much as the idea that she--
for him--
So.)
He leans back down, licks a stripe up her inner thigh. McNally whimpers, real quiet. Sam spreads her open and lets himself look, finally: she's dark, a little swollen, slick all the way down. He nips at those three pinprick freckles, not hard but hard enough to let her know he's there (Sam doesn't know what it is about her that makes him want to leave marks, stupid territory stuff he's never cared about before; so far he's resisted the impulse, although actually she scratched up his back pretty good the other night).
"Sa-am." McNally's squirming, impatient or shy, he's not totally sure. Sam licks once, broad, bottom to top. She's tetchy so he's gentle, flat of his tongue and just a little bit of pressure. Andy whines.
(She can't usually go over more than one time, she warned him that first night, like maybe she was trying to spare his feelings--which, yeah, turns out not to be so much true.
Like, at all.
Sam tries not to feel smug about that, and mostly fails).
He nudges her legs a little further apart, thumb stroking at the soft skin behind her knee and one steadying hand on her belly. Andy reaches down, laces her fingers through his. Her palm is damp. He rubs at the bottom of her ring finger a bit; notices what he's doing and stops. (After Callahan, she had a tan line there for weeks. It finally faded with the cold weather--one day Sam looked over during parade and it was gone, nothing but smooth skin. He remembers being stupidly glad. I've always liked the autumn. Yeah. Yeah.)
McNally whimpers, one heel sliding along the tile, restless. The back of her knee has gone slick with sweat. She's so wet there's almost no friction when he licks, tongue just gliding up and over. Sam works two fingers inside, strokes her where she's so tight and swollen and ridiculously warm it stops the breath down the back of his throat.
"Sam, god--" And jesus, she sounds. "Please."
Well. Sam doesn't need to be told twice (begged, actually. Doesn't need to be begged twice, and god in his heaven, he can't-- He's hard, he's so fucking hard against the freezing tile, and it's just--) He twists his fingers, flattens his tongue over her clit. Shakes his head from side to side. And that--
"Sam, fuck."
--That's got her.
It's a good one, he can tell, her nails in his hair. But then she's pulling him up before it's even over, one hand under his slippery chin, thumb digging into a bruise. Impatient.
Andy gets her lips against his hairline, at the uniform row of stitches at the side of his face. "Um," she says into his mouth (and she's shaking, a little, arms wrapped monkey tight around his neck). "It's, um. Possible. That I'm going to need you to do that a lot in the future."
Sam grins once, hard and bright (he just--he doesn't know exactly which part of that sentence is--yeah). He gets his hand between the tile and the back of her skull, kisses her slow and sloppy. "I think we can probably make that happen."
"Good." She's got her hips open wide, now, one knee up the side of his body and pushing at the back of his jeans with her foot. "Sam," she says, low and urgent, fist opening and closing in the hair at the back of his head. "Take these--"
He helps her get his pants off, Andy muscled tight around him, shoving at his boxers with her toes. She arches a little, slides herself along the full length of his cock, then lets go of his shoulders long enough to reach down in between them and line him up, no hesitation.
(No condom, either.
So, uh. That's new.)
"Are you--?" he starts, trying to hold his hips still (and he tells himself it's just like being on patrol--he's her T.O., he's got to be the responsible one, no letting McNally run off into any abandoned buildings--only it isn't, it is absolutely 100% different. She's wet and hot and he wants to be inside her right-the-fuck-now.)
"What?" She blinks at him, foot tucked behind his knee and this face like the English language has absolutely no meaning (which--she is not alone there). "Oh! Yeah, no, pill, we're good, go." She's breathless, and normally Sam would tease her about that level of incoherence, but, well--
go
--Yeah. Sam goes.
She makes an absolutely obscene sound as he sinks in, like the noise she makes when drinking Tim Hortons' hot chocolate only a million times dirtier, and god, Sam is not one of those guys who complains about condoms, but anyone who tells you it isn't better without is a fucking liar. He grits his teeth, works a hand through her hair. Lifts her off the floor enough for a kiss.
(And jesus, they're going to make such a mess on the tile--
He doesn't care. Fuck, fuck, he really doesn't care.)
Sam rests his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, smells sweat and the two of them mixed. He takes a deep breath--it's just--they've been doing this for a while, now, is the thing, and she's so--
(God, she wrecks him a little, tight and willing, all that wet slick heat.)
Sam works himself as deep as he can get, hips shifting, Andy's leg coming up around his waist. Her fingertips trace ghost patterns across the bruises on his back. He's keeping weight on his good arm as much as he can but the muscles in his shoulders are giving him trouble; he can't get his hands on her as much as he wants.
Andy frowns up at him, curious, cheeks flushed and lips bitten. "Is that--?" she asks (and he doesn't know why he thought maybe she wasn't watching that closely; it's like that in the field sometimes, too, where he assumes she's totally distracted and in reality she's right there at his back). "What do you want me to do?"
Which--jesus. A very many things, if he's telling the truth--he wants her in every position and on every piece of furniture in his house--but for now: "Just," he pulls out and it nearly kills him, how cold the air is, how much he wants her. "On top, I guess, if you--"
If you wouldn't mind is how that sentence ends, and god, Sam doesn't know where his head's at. He simultaneously wants to do all this pointless macho shit with her (biting, christ, marking up all that pretty smooth skin; that two-second image he had of putting her over his knee) but also to cater to her, give her everything she asks for. He's never particularly wanted either before, with a woman, he's just--
(gone on her)
--really worked up.
In the end she winds up in his lap, both of them sitting and Sam's shoulders against the fridge, the chill acting like a balm. McNally bites her lip, pulls him back inside her slippery body. They both make a completely embarrassing sound when he bottoms out; it's the longest they've lasted together, no question, all these fits and starts.
Andy's warm ass comes to rest against his thighs. "Good?" She's watching him through a curtain of her hair, careful.
"Yeah," Sam tells her. And it is; chest to chest, both of his hands free. He rubs at her hips as she starts moving. Sam likes watching her do this (Sam likes watching her do all kinds of things)--damp bangs stuck to her forehead and how she looks when she's finding a rhythm, brow furrowed just the slightest bit. His hands drift down to palm her ass. Something hits right for her, shallow and sliding: Andy's eyes squeeze shut against the sound of her groan.
"Look at me." He doesn't realize how much he wants it until it's already out there but fuck, he does want it, he wants it like he wants to breathe air. "Hey. Look at me."
"Sam--" She's got her face buried in his shoulder; somewhere in the back of his head he remembers that neither one of them died today, so in theory there's no reason for them to be hanging on as tight as they are. She's muffled, wet mouth at his collarbone and the hum of his name all down his neck. "Sam."
"Andy." His voice is completely unfamiliar. She's still moving steady in his lap. "Come on, sweetheart. I got you." Finally Sam makes a fist in that thick, pretty hair and pulls--just a little, not enough to hurt. "Look at me."
So.
Andy looks.
And fuck, that's a trip, her brown eyes gone nearly black with wanting. She's got this expression on her face that he can't read, hidden underneath all that slack gratification; tension maybe, or-- not fear, not exactly, but close enough that Sam strokes the hair off her forehead, pets up her back. Murmurs soothing nonsense, shit like it's okay and I know, sweetheart, I--. He can't believe it, the crap that's coming out of his mouth; really can't believe all the stuff that isn't, the shit he's barely managing not to say.
(Although: Andy's got two fists in the hair at the back of his neck, clutching, and she's not really-- she's looking at him like it means something, all those nothing words, so. This desperation thing they've got going, at least it's, uh. A two way street.)
"Sam," she says again, whining. Her eyes keep falling closed against the feeling. He's got one hand on her face now, thumb stroking over an eyebrow, all that aching tension. "Sam, gonna--"
He knows she is; she keeps clamping on him, skittish. "Shh, sweetheart, I've got you." And normally he'd do something now--flick her clit or palm a breast, help her over the edge--but he wants to watch, is the thing, doesn't want any distractions. He's about thirty seconds from the end himself.
Andy tilts her head back, shoves herself down one more time (beautiful girl with her mouth just open, body damp and furnace-warm in his arms). "That's it," he mutters, pulling her even closer, forehead up against his and her jaw clenching under his palm. "Just like that, sweetheart, you're perfect, you're--"
Which--that last part is maybe not something he was intending to say out loud (that day outside the concert and how he physically couldn't keep his hands off her, that completely irrational need to feel her for himself) but it just--it works, is the thing: there she goes, deep and shuddering, a low animal groan.
(She likes the praise, is a thing that's starting to dawn on him, and that's--
well.
He'll tell her she's perfect every day of the week, is all he's saying.)
"Sam," she gets out, still twitching (he can feel her, tight and jerking, that irregular catch and release). "Don't stop, don't--"
Sam's, uh. Not stopping.
He means to tell her so, but his tongue feels thick; watching her like that was just-- He needed to come about ten seconds ago, is the thing, the way she fought to keep her eyes open (because he asked, jesus, Andy McNally losing it like that and then just letting him see--), and he can't, he really can't. He gets his hands down to her ass instead, lifts a little (she's not quite recovered, jelly-legs and mostly ineffectual thrusting, so Sam just--does it for her.)
She gasps into his mouth, still shuddering. "Sam, please--" Their faces are so close together he thinks he might go cross-eyed looking at her, baby-fine eyelashes and these copper flecks in her irises.
He keeps looking anyway.
Andy tips her head down, tugs at his bottom lip. "Come on," she whispers, "Come on, come on, want to see you, I--"
Christ. Jesus-fucking-Christ and all his saints, Sam is--well. Sam is good and done then, their foreheads butting together, the way she tilts her face until her cold nose is just touching the tip of his. He's pretty sure he says her name (almost says some words after it that would send her clean across Lake Ontario). Knows he makes a noise.
McNally kisses him before it's even over, hands scrabbling at his ears. Greedy. Sam kisses her back until she quiets, her whole body going still and sleepy in his arms. He rubs up and down her spine a bit, taking a minute (he hurts literally everywhere he can think of, feels better than he has in his entire life; it's possible he's shaking a little bit himself). Eventually, she laughs.
"What?" he asks, shifting underneath her (and god, he was right, there's such a fucking mess in between them right now, they're going to have to handle that in a sec). "Something you want to share with the class?"
He feels her smile more than he sees it, the curve of her lips against his skin. "It's just, you know." Andy yawns into his shoulder. "We make a good team."
Sam snorts, head thudding back softly against the door of the fridge. "Yeah, well." He glances up at the clock on the micro; god, it's--it is late. "Been trying to tell you."
"Mm-hmm." McNally yawns again. "Andy is learning to be a better listener."
Sam grins, nudging at her a bit with one shoulder. She's going to pass out if he lets her, which, half in love with her or not (and fuck, he is, he really is, he's gonna have to be so goddamn careful), he's not sleeping sitting up on the kitchen floor. "McNally."
"Hm?" she murmurs, snuggles closer. "It's cold in here now, Sam."
"It's been cold for a while, sweetheart. Come on."
Andy hums a noise of protest into his throat, on the fast track towards nonverbal, but she moves (McNally's a girl who knows go means go, thank god). Standing, she looks sweetly sleepy, all mussed hair and slitted eyes. She blinks, keeps them closed half a beat too long.
All of a sudden she's making a face; Sam looks where she's looking and yeah, her thighs are, uh. Messy. McNally drags a finger through, wipes it off against his shoulder. "Gross."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Thanks so much." And sarcasm, sure, but he doesn't exactly mind, is the thing (he's eye-level for about two seconds before he pushes himself creakily to his feet, and he has this split-second image of just, like, licking it off her, which--yeah. His head's in weird place). He pulls a clean dishcloth out of the bottom drawer, runs it under warm water. Andy leans into him as he wipes them both off.
"At least we don't have to get up," she murmurs, eyes closed. Sam--yeah. It's time for the get-her-in-bed-and-sleep-for-a-week part of the plan.
He'd get her over his shoulder if he was at all confident in his ability to lift his arms at this particular moment; instead he laces his fingers through hers, tugs until she follows him down the hall toward the bedroom. "This is nice," she says sleepily, glancing around at the living room, the shit he's got hanging on the walls. "I, uh. Didn't notice last time."
Sam smirks. "When you came over to take advantage of me and then decided against it?"
"Yup. Then." Andy faceplants sideways across the mattress, long straight line of her back and those skinny ankles hanging off the edge, cold feet dangling in midair. "Are you going to judge me if I don't brush my teeth?" she asks.
Sam laughs and climbs in beside her, nudges her up toward the pillows with one knee. "Not tonight."
"Good." Andy wiggles around a bit, tugging at the sheets, and it's just--McNally naked and getting comfortable on the other side of the bed is probably a thing Sam could get used to, is all. She scoots a little closer, ass pushing at his side until he gets the message, rolls over to stroke at the curve of her hip (and I just do not get people who want to cuddle all the time, he remembers her saying one day in the cruiser, so--he doesn't really know what that's about). "I knew I liked you for a reason."
Sam pets up her rib cage. "Yeah. My lax hygiene standards really bring the ladies." Andy laughs, muffled.
(And he used to think he liked her for no good reason at all--scatterbrained rookie, running around half-cocked with her radio off, not his type--but now, uh. He's pretty sure--
Well. He's pretty sure it's all the reasons.)
"I'm going to need more pancakes in the morning," Andy slurs. She throwing off heat like an electric blanket, too-warm all the way up his front. Sam doesn't move. "Just a forewarning."
"I'll consider myself warned," Sam says, and he is, he really is, he's in so much trouble with her, way over his head, and he knows--
He doesn't particularly care.
"Chocolate chips this time," she adds.
Sam fits his fingers along the dips in her rib cage, downy soft. "McNally. Go to sleep."
She does. Sam stays up for a little while. Just looking.
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 10,163
Summary: The one on the kitchen floor.
Author's Note: Can’t stop won’t stop, apparently.
She's quiet most of the car ride home (home-home, finally, even though it's probably covered in dust, nothing in the fridge, and crap, seriously, what is he even going to feed her?). It's eerie, especially after all that chatter in the cover apartment--no fiddling with the radio presets, nothing. She keeps looking at him like he shot her dog, or she shot his. (And he gets it, he does. They're--well. It was a pretty monumental fuck-up, all told.) Finally Sam takes her hand at a red light on Dufferin, tells her they're going to be fine.
Oddly enough, that's what finally makes her burst into tears. Like, big, ugly, all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips sobs.
"Sam--" and he can barely hear her, she's crying so hard. "You could have died." Her nose is all snotty.
And Sam knows he shouldn't be smiling at her--J.D.'s a gentleman, holds my hand, brings me juice in bed--but he's not dead, is the thing. He's not dead, and she's not dead. No one is dead, and he's pretty sure she obliquely agreed to date him in the parking lot.
So.
Sam squeezes her hand, thumb stroking lightly at the inside of her wrist. “McNally,” he says, voice quiet. It’s stupid how much he wants to get his arms around her. “You hungry?”
Andy blinks at him, snuffles a couple of times. “Yeah,” she says finally--and christ, she sounds so impossibly young. “A little.”
They’re actually not the weirdest-looking people at the twenty-four hour grocery store in the middle of the night, but Sam thinks they probably come close--Andy all red-eyed and splotchy, him with his face beat half to hell. (She shops in a meandering, counterproductive way, carrots and beer and fruit snax, zigzagging all over the store. Twenty minutes in and there’s nothing in their cart that even remotely resembles dinner.)
“Moving in?” he asks, as she tosses in a giant box of Frosted Flakes, and for a second she looks so completely stricken that Sam laughs.
“Shut up,” she says, when she realizes he’s kidding. Her voice is still a little phlegmy. “I’m trying to be normal.”
“Oh yeah?” Sam takes the cereal out of her hand, throws it in the cart on top of some underripe bananas. “How’s that working out for you so far?”
She looks from him to the mess of processed junk in the child seat, makes a face. "I'm getting orange juice," she announces, nose in the air. So. Back they go to the drinks aisle then.
He selects grape, just to piss her off (“Seriously, Sam, only five-year-olds drink that.”). She's smiling again, thank god; Sam was this close to doing a bit with cucumbers.
Finally, after their fifth trip down the cereal aisle, Sam takes control of the situation, picking up a chicken breast and some stir-fry vegetables in quick succession (for tomorrow--tonight he's making her pancakes, he doesn't even care, it's nearly one in the morning).
"Broccoli?" She wrinkles her nose (only the slightest bit red now).
So.
Probably she'll even prefer the pancakes, then.
They get the groceries out to the truck (not before a ridiculous farcical exchange over who's going to carry the bags, Andy loading herself down with them, plastic handles biting into the crook of her elbow: "Sam, your hand--"
Sam rolls his eyes and grabs three of them, and if the pain sings up his arm a little, it feels like a small price to pay not to scare her.)
She drops the bags on the floor of the cab, is about to slide into the passenger seat when Sam slips two fingers into her belt loop and yanks, pushes her up against the side of the truck (he just--he thinks it's possible there's a window here, and he's really, really done missing chances). She tastes like dried-up tears. "Hey," he mutters, wind biting cold at the back of his neck and one knee slipping between hers. "Thanks for, uh. Tracking me down."
She screws up her face like she's maybe going to cry again; puts her mouth in a hard line and doesn't. "Don't. Sam, seriously--"
"No, you seriously." His hands are suddenly shaking, here in some 24-hour Metro parking lot, and he's got to tell her--something. "McNally. It could have been either of us." (The dizzying relief is hitting him all over again, that moment when he climbed into the cruiser and realized he hadn't believed Brennan, not really, when he'd said she was fine.)
She's got her hands up under his jacket, cold fingers sliding across his back. "Yeah, okay." Like she doesn't believe him, but desperately wants to be talked into it. Then: "What about me?" she asks, muscling him closer--he's got to be crushing her against the car a little bit, but McNally doesn't seem to care. "Would you have found me?"
Sam rolls his eyes, because the actual answer to that question is or gotten myself killed trying, and yeah, not scaring her. "Yeah, sweetheart," he tells her (and the sweetheart, that's new, a J.D. thing he guesses is gonna stick). "I'd have found you."
McNally grins, big like Christmas (and this girl, Sam swears to god, he can't decide if he wants to zip her inside his jacket or get his mouth between her legs or sleep for thirteen hours with her stretched out on the mattress next to him. He thinks it's possible he wants all those things equally). "Good," she says. "That's what I thought."
He kisses her again, good hand curled around the back of her skull--a little sloppier, further into her mouth until he gets a whimper out of her. Then he smiles. "McNally," he mutters, right in her ear. "Get in the car."
This time, the ride isn't so quiet. She's chatty; Best's face when she told him, Brennan down by the docks ("but I stayed in character--god, Sam, I thought for sure he was gonna make me"). The box of Frosted Flakes is clamped between her knees--every few words and she swallows a handful, dry, and Sam would roll his eyes except for the part where she puts a few in his palm and he totally eats them, he's that hungry.
They get the groceries inside (Sam lets her take a few more this time, hand stiff all the way to his wrist; she doesn't mention it), and yeah, he was right, dust on everything. McNally opens up the fridge and laughs, shoves a mostly-empty container of cranberry juice at his chest. She's got this face, good-natured resignation, like she's shoring up for a future of unsatisfactory juice selections, and that--well. Sam rinses out the jug for the recycling bin, smiling at nothing.
"Don't look at your phone," Andy says then, completely out of the blue. "Or, well, okay, look at it, but like." She makes a face. "Don't check your messages."
"Why?" he asks, grabbing it off the table where it's sitting on top of an electric bill that's definitely overdue at this point. It's dead, so he plugs it in (charger right where he left it, that weird sensation of time passing but also not-- last time he came back from eight months under and found a shit ton of laundry in the hamper he'd forgotten to do before he left) and hits the button for voicemail. "Candice from Appleton a drunk dialer?"
"No, Sam, seriously, I'm not--" And she actually lunges for it, is the thing, like she's going to wrench it clear out of his hand, which--
"What the hell, McNally?" Sam laughs a little, ducks out of her way (too fast, maybe; his ribs are protesting, for sure). Andy looks like she wishes the universe would swallow her whole.
Well. Now he's curious.
It's the first message in the queue, so he must have just missed her: good candy and some reference to champagne he doesn't get and coming over.
Let’s make ‘em count.
Sam blinks and looks across the kitchen. It is really, really obvious that she wishes she were dead.
"McNally," he says quietly, and he knows he shouldn't grin at her but he just--he's in trouble, is the thing. "Did you come here?"
She shifts her weight, toeing at the linoleum at bit. "Um." (And jesus god, she's actually blushing, all across her nose and cheeks and the tips of her ears, like Sam's never seen. "I didn't make you for shy"; well yeah, okay, but apparently--) "Maybe?"
"Maybe." He puts the phone down, starts inching across the tile; like trying not to spook a horse. "So what you're saying is I picked a bad, bad time to go under?"
She shrugs and leaves her shoulders up, hunched. "Pretty much?" Her face is the picture of misery. Sam cannot, cannot, cannot stop grinning.
"How long did you wait around?" (He hopes not long, but well--he has been waiting around for a while, metaphorically speaking, and it's just--) Only that earns him an embarrassed whine, high-pitched around his name. He changes tactics. "What made you change your mind?" He's close now, arms coming up to trap her against the counter.
McNally changes tactics, too. "Who says I changed my mind?" she counters bossily, a smart little twist of her mouth. "Maybe I just came over to almost-but-not kiss you some more."
"Yeah, well." Sam snorts (he earned that one, he guesses); gets closer. "You're good at that."
"I'm great at that," Andy corrects automatically. She's holding her ground, not leaning one way or the other. She smells like body spray and skin.
"Mm." He nods--eyebrows up, patient. "You're doin' it right now."
Andy huffs a little. "I thought about you, okay?" she says finally, and the way she's so annoyed, it's--yeah. "Is that what you want to hear? I thought about you, and I didn't want you to go and do that stupid thing with stupid Boyd. Who, I would like to add, I always knew was a creep, so. "
So.
"Yeah," he tells her, nodding a bit (and god, he really, really needs to quit smiling). "That's basically what I wanted to hear."
"Well," she says snottily. "Good for you."
"Good for me." Sam waits until he's got his chest right up against hers, until he can feel her warm breath on his lips--then pulls back, all at once. "Okay," he says, strictly business--almost, but not. "Pancakes."
She glowers at him--eyes narrowed and everything, an eight-grader with a bad attitude--but there's no real heat. Sam figures it's twenty percent exhaustion, eighty percent the promise of food. Still, when she boosts herself up on the counter, watches him measure out the flour ("Aren't you going to use a mix?"; ten, fifteen seconds where they stare at each other in mutual disbelief), she adds, "You keeping doing my bit and I'm going to have to do yours. Skip town. Leave no forwarding address."
"Funny." He's handed her a whisk and the wet ingredients, but so far she isn't doing much. He gives her knee a squeeze, skinny under her jeans. "McNally. Stir."
"I'm stirring." She pokes morosely at the egg yokes; brightens. "Hey, you have any chocolate chips?"
Twelve years old, Sam swears. "It's after midnight."
"What?" She laughs. "What's next? Can't expose me to bright lights or get me wet either?" At his blank stare, she rolls her eyes. "Gremlins, Sam, seriously. It's like you were raised in a box."
More like a decade and a bit before her, but fine. "I know the important things." And then, because it's late and he can: "Pretty sure I can get you wet. Just saying."
She gapes at him for a second, eyes widening like he's offended her delicate sensibilities (which, nice try, but he's gotten her to bed twice now, and her sensibilities--they're, uh. Not that delicate).
After a beat she recovers, smirks at him, whisks a little. "Sounds sort of overconfident to me, Swarek."
"Oh yeah?" Sam drops some butter in the pan, watches it sizzle. "That a challenge?"
She shrugs. "Take it however you want. I'm just sharing an observation."
"Be sure and put it in your report." Sam grins once. "You really want me to kiss you, huh."
She hands him her bowl, cool as you please. "I don't want anything." Bossy, sure, but she's got a smile not-quite-hiding somewhere in there, and honestly, if he hadn't just poured out some of the batter--
(She smiled at him a lot, is the thing, in J.D.'s crappy cover house. Sam can't figure out if it's just that she gets giddy after an orgasm, or if it's-- something else.)
"Do you not want pancakes, then?" He gestures with the spatula, all faux-geniality and concern. "Because I can stop."
"Oh, ha-ha." She slides her ass along the counter, closer to the stove. "You don't feed me, and I'm going to eat you." He raises an eyebrow and she kicks him, none too gently. "Cannibalism, Sam. Not the fun kind."
"There's a fun kind of cannibalism?" He's got her bony foot trapped between his arm and rib-cage; she tugs but he gets a hand around her ankle, holds her there. "You gonna behave?"
"You gonna make me?" she fires back immediately--and yeah, pancakes or not, that's a dare. Sam looks her up and down for a minute, slow enough to make her squirm: the faint curve of her rib cage, the neckline of her shirt. There are three big freckles slung low on her left hipbone, is a fact he learned about her recently--beauty marks, really, like points on a map. They're--they're not a bad way to punctuate a body, is all he's saying. "I'm thinking about it," he tells her eventually, and strokes his thumb along the violent jut of her ankle before he lets her go.
He grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard and hands her the first pancake--it's a little dark, maybe, but not bad considering he wasn't really, uh. Paying attention. "Forks in the drawer behind you," he says, which turns out to be pointless: Andy pours a puddle of syrup right in the middle, folds it in half, and stuffs the whole thing into her mouth. He's pretty sure she doesn't even chew.
"Nice," he says, watching. Andy grins.
"Hurry up." She nudges at him with a foot. "I want another one." All young and sassy and 360 different kinds of bold; Sam bets her high school boyfriends all did exactly what she said. When he looks over, she widens her eyes at him: make me.
Well.
That's how he ends up spending the next ten minutes cooking and eating a single pancake, McNally all over him, laughing and whining and generally just using a whole lot of language Sam's doesn’t hear outside of poker games much. (And it's a common enough expression, you kiss your mother with that mouth, but. Sam looks at her. Doesn't say it.)
"Happy?" he asks, when she finally crams her second pancake in. She nearly climbed over him to make it, sharp knees against his ribs and bruises singing all the way around, like a vice. (He let her do it, though. Doesn't need her treating him like glass.)
"Uh-huh." She grins at him, sweet and easy. "Hurry up."
Sam looks down at his half-eaten pancake (he cut it into the tiniest pieces possible, was just a third into it when she literally growled at him, "I'll do it myself", long lean over and her breasts pressing against his arm as she reached for the spatula). "What, you want more?"
"Sam." She hooks a leg around him, turns off the stove with her toes. "Hurry up."
Oh.
That kind of hurry up.
"Something you need, McNally?" he asks, getting closer; she makes a face like she can't believe he's still giving her a hard time, is halfway through an eye-roll when he gets his mouth on hers. McNally squeaks, a little. Sam tastes syrup and sweat. Her fingers are sticky at his jawline, and Sam sucks at them until they're clean.
He wants her--he doesn't know if it's this day or what, but suddenly he just--would really, really like to feel all of her, is the thing. She's inching toward the edge of the counter--the height is okay, actually, he thinks he can probably work with this--but when she gets his shirt up over his head McNally actually gasps, so.
There's that.
"Don't," he says, right away--and yeah, it looks sort of bad now, black and blue all up and down his rib cage, places that are scraped a little more raw than he thought. Sam shakes his head. "McNally." He's trying for his T.O. voice (don't think just listen I'm not here to hold your hand) because she responds to that, generally, but he must miss because the look she gives him is just-- "Don't."
"I'm not." Andy blinks and recovers, swallows hard. "Dumbass," she tells him, shoving at his shoulders a little (gentle, though, careful; not enough to hurt). "Why'd you let me climb all over you like that?"
He shrugs. "It's not that bad." Because, hey, if nothing else is selling might as well try straight-up lies. Only that doesn't work on her either (of course, no way it would, she's so stubborn it's stupid).
"Dumbass," she says again, but with this face like she isn't joking. "Shouldn't this get you, like, worker's comp or something?" And she's counting up his ribs now, just lightly, fingers barely touching down.
His voice comes out too quiet. "Not with the suspension."
"Oh. Well." She brings her head-up, finally meets his eyes, face smoothed over into the picture of earnestness. "Don't worry--if you get put on permanent disability, we'll manage somehow. I'll work two shifts, we'll pinch pennies... no more frivolous juice purchases--"
God, laughing hurts. "You're insane, you know that?"
She's fighting a grin, getting into it now. "Either way, honey, I'll take care of you." Taking his head in her hands like she's the man and he's the woman. "We'll make it."
This girl. "Insane."
"You like it," she says, all confidence (and he does, he really does, so-- can't argue with her there). "So, um." McNally smoothes her palms over his shoulders, thumbs lightly at a reddish welt on his chest. "Do you want to just, like--" (her gaze slips down again, somewhere in the neighborhood of his sternum)--"watch a movie?"
Sam almost laughs--she's just so full of crap, is the great thing, like a sixteen year old boy whose prom date just stopped him at second base. "Yeah, for sure," he says seriously. "Maybe if we're real lucky, Gremlins will be on."
It takes her a second to realize he's making fun of her. "What?" she demands (and there's that blush again, indignant, her cheeks getting a little rosy. Sam likes that, too). "Well, we can't--not with you--I'm gonna hurt you, Sam."
"You're not gonna hurt me."
"Uh-uh." Andy shakes her head, that hard set of her mouth (she's interested, though; she's still got one leg hooked around his, a little possessive, the arch of her foot flattened against the back of his knee). "Sam--"
"You're not gonna hurt me. Don't be stupid. Lift your arms."
McNally's eyes narrow. "You're stupid," she mutters, but she does what he tells her, so. Maybe the T.O. thing was the way to go after all.
He skims her shirt off, tosses it next to them on the counter. (And she's back to eager in about three seconds, pulling him in, toes curling around the seam of his jeans--Want to watch a movie? Sure, McNally. Sure.) Sam steps up and yeah, this height's going to work. Andy rolls her shoulders back, way too pretty for her own good in a sport bra and jeans; he rubs at the curve of one breast, tight under the fabric. (And that's going to work for Sam too, McNally-in-a-fully-lit-kitchen. He's only seen her in daylight the one time.)
"I don't want to--" She's got her knees at his hips, lightly. "Where else are you bruised?"
Lots of places. Sam slips his fingers through her belt loops, slides her forward until she's right at the edge, denim on denim. "Nowhere important." Pressing himself against her, half-hard already. (She, uh. Really does it for him, McNally.)
"Oh good." She smirks. "I'm just using you for sex, so. You know. Essentials."
Sam runs his hands up and down her stomach, the clean lines of her rib cage. "Oh, I've got your essentials, sweetheart."
McNally grins and snuggles closer, her stomach pressing up against his (and god, she is like--she is warm, all heat and muscle, that lion heart pumping away). She puts her lips against a scrape on his shoulder, buries her face in the crook of his neck--and just, the way she's got her arms around him, tight like she's not letting go--well.
(And all right, look. Sam's a grownup. He can admit to himself when something is a diversion, a fun way to kill time and keep from freezing all winter.
Also, he can admit to himself when it's not.)
They make out for a little while, lazy. They've never done this not on borrowed time. He gets his hand in her hair, tugs a little (she pulls at his to answer, not entirely gentle; Sam grins hard and fast against her mouth). Eventually, McNally starts to whine.
"Andy." He slips his hand under the elastic of the sport bra, fingers rubbing at the faint grooves it leaves in her skin (and like, this thing doesn't even have hooks, it's for gym class or something, Sam doesn't--). He can feel the pleats of her spine against his palm. "Take this off."
She arches a bit under his hands, chest-to-chest, the smooth slide of synthetic fabric; backs up a few feet and hooks her thumbs around the elastic. It gets caught in her hair on the way off, static electricity making the individual strands stand up and cling. She runs a hand through it, makes it messier.
(And uh, messy and shirtless is a look that works on McNally too. She's practically a Calvin Klein ad, except for the part where she's wearing twenty dollar jeans from Old Navy.)
She catches him looking, leans back on her hands. "See something you like, Swarek?" And jesus god, it's such a bad line, sixteen year old boys are smoother, he swears--only okay, yes. Yes he does. (She not really sport bra shaped is the thing, she has, um. Well. She's--different with it off.)
"Yeah." Sam reaches out with his good hand, pinches a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and McNally--well. Her whole body jumps, an electric jolt through the muscles in her stomach. She stays still though, stays sitting back on her hands, eyes wide and interested. Sam gives her the edge of his nail and she whimpers. (And it's something he's been curious about, how rough she'd--
Well.
She whines again, so. That's pretty much his answer.)
Sam glances up at her face, gauging: she's breathing hard, hips coming up and head back against the cupboard, bottom lip caught between her teeth.
("Do that again," she says, bossy; she's got her eyes cast down a little, watching, and that--)
Sam, uh. Does it again.
He wonders for a second if he could get her off like this, before she's even really naked at all, but in the end he doesn't get a chance to find out because just like that she changes her mind and hops off the counter, muscles him back against the door of the fridge (and there's a line with her, Sam's figuring out, where once you cross it it becomes absolutely necessary for her to cross it ten times harder. Which is, uh. Pretty much how they wound up on the floor the other night). He hits with enough force that a couple of takeout menus and an old photo of his sister go fluttering to the tile and before he can stop himself he oofs a little, pain sharp and unpleasant all the way up his back.
Andy realizes, hisses back. "Shit, fuck, sorry," she says immediately, wide-eyed and looking up at him (she's working at the button on his jeans, back on her haunches on his kitchen floor). "Sorry."
Sam laughs (or starts to; the ache in his chest plus the fact that she's got her hand wrapped around his cock, to be completely honest it comes out sort of choked off). "I'll live."
She bites away a sheepish smile, free hand coming up to trace the jut of his hip. "'K, yeah. Wow. Sorry." And Sam gets a kick out of that, how she's cringing in sympathy but also completely not stopping--like she can't help it or wants to distract him, he isn't really sure which. Her fingers tap out a nervous rhythm against his abdomen. "I'll be gentle."
Only then she definitely isn't, swallowing him down with absolutely no preamble; backing off and swallowing less as he gets all-the-way hard. Sam groans before he realizes he's going to do it. "Fuck, Andy." Her mouth is very, very wet.
She hums an answer against his skin, sucks him quick and sloppy, and jesus, she's not being careful enough with her teeth. (Probably on purpose, now that Sam's looking; like she'd maybe be smirking if her mouth wasn't full.) He's got a hand halfway to her head before he stops himself.
Andy pulls off his cock with a smack. "Go for it."
Sam blinks. "What?"
Now she really does smirk. "Go. For it." Nice and clear, lifting her chin in the direction of his hand.
So.
Sam gets that messy hair up off the nape of her neck, makes a loose fist at the back of her skull. For a second he tips his head against the fridge. He's only gonna guide her a little (there's something inexperienced about her mouth, like maybe she hasn't had a whole lot of practice, and oh god in his heaven she is young. Sam tries not to think about it.
He thinks about it anyway.
He really, really shouldn't be as into it as he is.)
She works him deeper again, concentrating like he's seen her do anything difficult, one hand stroking hard at the base. Sam relaxes his grip a little bit, giving her room, only then she glances up at him and rolls her eyes, nudges her head back at his palm until he figures out what she wants.
(And what she wants, apparently, is--
jesus christ, this girl.)
Sam pushes her head down, harder this time, a little rougher. Andy hums a smug little laugh against his cock.
Which--fuck. His skull thuds back against the fridge, magnets rattling, and shit, he doesn't want to like, hurt her or anything, god forbid he make her choke--but then there's the way she's relaxing her mouth, just a bit, lips loose and easy so he can--fuck. He rubs at the curve of her ear, gentle, as if that makes the rest of it any better.
Well. This is proof positive that she trusts him, he guesses, so. There is that.
(And then, of course, he's thinking about it, squad cars and his T.O. voice--she's his fucking rookie for god's sakes, and now he's got her on her knees in his kitchen and--well. The whole thing generally just makes Sam feel like an ass and also, stupidly, does way more for him than it should.
Way more.)
They're in a rhythm now, Andy sucking slow and steady, all the way to the tip of his cock until he shoves her back down, and it's rougher than he's been with anyone. He's got a thumb at the hinge of her jaw so he can feel when she relaxes it, knows when to push.
"Andy." Christ, watching her is just-- "Andy, sweetheart, you've gotta--"
Andy ignores him completely, like she didn't even hear (except he knows she did, the way her grip tightened just then, wet tongue working like she just wants to see if she can get him to--). Sam's pretty sure she's not going to stop unless he stops her. "Andy."
He's not going to last a whole lot longer like this, is the thing, and he doesn't want to--
(he wants to. Fuck, he wants to, and the idea that she's got no qualms about letting him is just--it's--
jesus.)
"McNally." Finally Sam pulls her off him, gentle, tilts her head back until she's looking up. Her pupils are completely, totally blown. "You just--you gotta give me a second, all right?"
Andy grins at him and sits back hard, knees raised and palms flat on the tile. She nudges at his ankle with her foot. "Wouldn't have made you for shy," she says, raising her eyebrows, and wipes at her rosy mouth with the back of her hand.
Sam laughs, flips a fallen takeout menu over with his toes. Looks down at the inelegant sprawl of her body, nipples high and dark. "Yeah, see, I don't think shy's really my problem here."
McNally nods sagely. "Stamina. Stamina is your problem." Just like that, bossy as anything. She squeals before he even lunges at her, pornographic to playground tussling in under 60 seconds, and Sam has no earthly idea what he's going to do with her. (Well, okay, that's not strictly true--his sister's picture on the fridge; we met on the force--but like, short term. Short term he's not sure.
For instance: there's the question of whether to lay her out on the tile or put her over his knee.)
They end up on the floor because Sam's ribs are too sore to force her standing, McNally half-in, half-out of his lap, sharp elbows everywhere. He gets her hands behind her back, holds them there like she's under arrest. "Stamina, huh?"
She grins against his jaw, cheeky. "Just an observation." She scoots forward until he's pressed against the seam of her jeans, rough denim biting at his skin. "So um." She jiggles her wrists under his hold. "You gonna let me go here, officer?"
Sam looks her over (shoulders back and chest pushed way out, a little bit helpless and still that smart-aleck twist of her mouth) and smirks. "Haven't decided."
Andy grumbles at him a bit, fidgeting around in his lap, but--uh. He's pretty sure she's trying for friction more than anything else, so. He keeps her wrists in his busted hand (not hard-- his grip is pretty miserable right now, to tell the truth; earlier he brushed off the idea of an x-ray and somewhere in a back corner of his brain he's wondering if maybe he wasn't the slightest bit hasty), uses his good one to work open the button on her jeans.
(She could get her arms back no problem, if she wanted them.
She doesn't try.)
Sam gets his fingers down into her underwear (neon cotton with little dogs all over them, tenth-grade lingerie), opens her up just a bit-- and she is, uh.
She is wet.
He rubs a little, over her clit and then lower, just circling. Andy squirms in his lap, whines a bit. "Sam..."
"Hm?" Sam mutters. He slides his middle finger lower, not inside but close enough that she bucks. Sam pulls back, grins into her hair. "Gotta tell me what you want."
She butts her head up against his jaw, frustrated. "I want--" She's trying to grind herself on him, but Sam slides his whole hand into her underwear and just cups, blunt pressure. "Dammit, Sam--"
"McNally." He flattens his palm against her clit, still smiling (and it hurts, just a little, the cuts up the side of his face stretching and pulling--but he, uh. Can't seem to stop, so). "What do you want?" She hisses and shoves her hips at him, but he knows it isn't enough for her, sloppy friction with no real focus. His entire palm is wet.
She groans into his neck, not the sexy kind. "God, you're so mean." And Sam's about to say no he isn't, about to laugh and flip his hand, give her something to rub against, except: "Fuck, fine, just--would you please just finger me already?" He thinks she means to sound exasperated, but it comes out schoolmarm-proper, that prissy twist of her mouth. Would he please. Jesus Christ.
"Sure, McNally." He kisses one flushed cheek. "Since you asked so nicely."
He’s going to tease her for it, all that kindergarten politeness--only then he gets two fingers in, slow up to the second knuckle, and she whines at him, sharper and louder and generally just--um. It is a new sound, is all Sam's saying.
So.
Andy fucks herself down onto his fingers, hips working. Sam lets go of her wrists. He's expecting some smartass comment but her hands come up around his neck right away, clutching a little, her fingertips in the hair at his nape. She's still making noise, quieter now, but he wants to hear that whine again so he adds a third finger, slow and steady, then crooks them forward come here.
Bingo.
"Good?" Sam asks (he's still smiling, he can't help it; he'd do this to her their whole suspension if she'd let him). Andy nods into his neck. He nudges her back a little, gets his thumb at a nipple, ducks his head enough to get her into his mouth. He licks for a minute, tries biting, and the gasp she lets out against his skin--well.
Sam bites harder.
She's still working herself on his fingers, more purpose now, not kidding around. Sam grinds the heel of his hand into her clit, gives her pressure, and after another minute--there she goes. "Good girl," he tells her, fingers still moving, Andy whimpering against his skin. "Good girl."
She keeps her head down for a moment, still twitching; huffs a laugh into his shoulder. "Yeah, um. Wow. Okay." She pats blindly for his chest, eyes closed. "Hang on a sec."
She always goes a bit nonverbal, after. Sam extracts his fingers and presses down, wrings the last of the aftershocks out of her. Gets a nice squeak for his troubles. "Take your time." Her back is warm under his hand, the faint grooves where her bra bit in. (And this part right here, when she's quiet and dreamy, breathing gone all slow-- Sam really likes this part.
Sam can imagine liking this part for a long time.)
"Okay," she says after another minute. "Right." She lifts her head and laughs. "God, we always make such a mess."
Sam looks around. There's a takeout menu beside his hip, a magnet by his left foot. Not bad, considering, but--
(The first time, the headboard against the wall, chipped paint--
The second, the oof when they hit the floor and the breath going out of him, Andy whining about her knees and the way she just kept going--)
She has a point.
Sam shifts around underneath her a bit, trying to get comfortable (she's not heavy, exactly, but she's sharp, all knees and tailbone, those skinny hips). He's trying to do it without her noticing, but: "Whoops. Sorry," she says again. She eases out of his lap and lays back, one arm up to pillow her head on (which--off him wasn't exactly where he wanted her to go, but this view is--not bad). She flinches a little when her bare skin hits the tile.
"McNally," he says, smiling a little. "You wanna move someplace that isn't the cold floor?"
"Whatever." Andy shrugs, plants one foot against his chest. "I'm happy here."
Well, then. Sam's happy here too, to tell you the truth; still, for appearance's sake: "Weirdo."
"You are." Andy reaches out and picks the picture of Sarah up off the floor--glances at it for a second, then back at Sam. "She looks like girl you," she says.
Sam snorts. "She'd love to hear that, I'm sure."
"No, she's pretty," Andy says decisively, and if she thinks half-naked on the kitchen tile is an odd venue for a talk about his sister she doesn't show it. "She's, you know. Like. Striking."
Sam's lips twitch. "Striking, huh?" He tugs at the ankle of her jeans until Andy gets the message, lifts her hips to help him out. "That what I am?"
"Shut up. What's your family like?" she asks, as he gets them all the way off her (and, uh. McNally in her underwear on his kitchen floor, legs spread--that's. Something). "Your mom and dad."
Sam collects her ankles in his lap, long toes and gold polish chipping most of the way off. She's got pretty banged-up feet, McNally, like she maybe played high-impact sports all through high school. He thumbs the line of her arch, imagines her in court shoes. "I don't--normal, I guess." Only they weren't, not really, not after Sarah-- "Quiet." A whole minefield of silence, Sam's childhood.
"Quiet." Thoughtful, like she's mulling it over. Then: "What were you like as a kid?" She wiggles a foot out of his hold, gets it back up on his chest; pushes a bit on the you.
Sam grins. "Shorter."
"Hilarious." She cocks her head. "Mmm. I bet you were real serious."
She's not wrong. Still--"I bet you were annoying." He rests her other foot on his collarbone, pulls her toward him a little--and then hey, why not, might as well go for broke. The backs of her knees are cold against his shoulders. "I bet your report cards always said 'Andy is learning to be a better listener'."
"Shut up." She's got her bottom lip caught between her teeth again and yeah, Sam can see it, the tomboy all grown up and sexy. Skinny, for sure. Perpetually falling out of trees.
He kisses the pale strip of skin above her underwear, murmurs, "I bet you were very pretty." He looks up and finds her looking back hard--which, right, of course, it's the first time he's ever said anything about her looks one way or the other. So.
McNally smiles a bit, pleased and maybe a little surprised, like there's an outside chance it honestly never occurred to her that he thinks she's--
seriously, this girl.
(thisgirlthisgirlthisgirl.)
Sam runs his palms up and down the hard length of her thighs, just friendly, rubbing at the muscles under her skin. He wants to give her more time, if she needs it (it's possible he wants to give her, uh. Whatever she wants), but when he presses his mouth against the damp spot on her stupid underwear her hips roll up at him right away, reflexive, so--
break's over, he guesses.
"McNally," he says, mouthing at her a little through the fabric, the smell of cotton and underneath that the smell of her. She glances up at him with a shred of trepidation, like she thinks maybe he's going to make her say what she wants again (and he would, he likes to hear her; at some point he's going to make her talk him all the way through) but just, the way she's pushing at his mouth, a little insistent--Sam pretty much already knows.
He kisses her through the fabric one more time (and like, his lips are brushing against one of those little cartoon dogs, he can't even--), then swings her ankles together, starts to tug. She goes up into an arch to help him, hips and lower back completely off the floor (which is, uh. An interesting position to remember for later). But then he's got her, McNally-naked-next-to-several-artificial-light-sources, and he more or less forgets about anything else.
(She's got a floss of brown curls between her legs; the first time they did this she made a face and apologised, something about "dry spells" and "not expecting", which Sam didn't really follow until he got her naked the second time and she was neater. And that--yeah.
It's not the aesthetic so much as the idea that she--
for him--
So.)
He leans back down, licks a stripe up her inner thigh. McNally whimpers, real quiet. Sam spreads her open and lets himself look, finally: she's dark, a little swollen, slick all the way down. He nips at those three pinprick freckles, not hard but hard enough to let her know he's there (Sam doesn't know what it is about her that makes him want to leave marks, stupid territory stuff he's never cared about before; so far he's resisted the impulse, although actually she scratched up his back pretty good the other night).
"Sa-am." McNally's squirming, impatient or shy, he's not totally sure. Sam licks once, broad, bottom to top. She's tetchy so he's gentle, flat of his tongue and just a little bit of pressure. Andy whines.
(She can't usually go over more than one time, she warned him that first night, like maybe she was trying to spare his feelings--which, yeah, turns out not to be so much true.
Like, at all.
Sam tries not to feel smug about that, and mostly fails).
He nudges her legs a little further apart, thumb stroking at the soft skin behind her knee and one steadying hand on her belly. Andy reaches down, laces her fingers through his. Her palm is damp. He rubs at the bottom of her ring finger a bit; notices what he's doing and stops. (After Callahan, she had a tan line there for weeks. It finally faded with the cold weather--one day Sam looked over during parade and it was gone, nothing but smooth skin. He remembers being stupidly glad. I've always liked the autumn. Yeah. Yeah.)
McNally whimpers, one heel sliding along the tile, restless. The back of her knee has gone slick with sweat. She's so wet there's almost no friction when he licks, tongue just gliding up and over. Sam works two fingers inside, strokes her where she's so tight and swollen and ridiculously warm it stops the breath down the back of his throat.
"Sam, god--" And jesus, she sounds. "Please."
Well. Sam doesn't need to be told twice (begged, actually. Doesn't need to be begged twice, and god in his heaven, he can't-- He's hard, he's so fucking hard against the freezing tile, and it's just--) He twists his fingers, flattens his tongue over her clit. Shakes his head from side to side. And that--
"Sam, fuck."
--That's got her.
It's a good one, he can tell, her nails in his hair. But then she's pulling him up before it's even over, one hand under his slippery chin, thumb digging into a bruise. Impatient.
Andy gets her lips against his hairline, at the uniform row of stitches at the side of his face. "Um," she says into his mouth (and she's shaking, a little, arms wrapped monkey tight around his neck). "It's, um. Possible. That I'm going to need you to do that a lot in the future."
Sam grins once, hard and bright (he just--he doesn't know exactly which part of that sentence is--yeah). He gets his hand between the tile and the back of her skull, kisses her slow and sloppy. "I think we can probably make that happen."
"Good." She's got her hips open wide, now, one knee up the side of his body and pushing at the back of his jeans with her foot. "Sam," she says, low and urgent, fist opening and closing in the hair at the back of his head. "Take these--"
He helps her get his pants off, Andy muscled tight around him, shoving at his boxers with her toes. She arches a little, slides herself along the full length of his cock, then lets go of his shoulders long enough to reach down in between them and line him up, no hesitation.
(No condom, either.
So, uh. That's new.)
"Are you--?" he starts, trying to hold his hips still (and he tells himself it's just like being on patrol--he's her T.O., he's got to be the responsible one, no letting McNally run off into any abandoned buildings--only it isn't, it is absolutely 100% different. She's wet and hot and he wants to be inside her right-the-fuck-now.)
"What?" She blinks at him, foot tucked behind his knee and this face like the English language has absolutely no meaning (which--she is not alone there). "Oh! Yeah, no, pill, we're good, go." She's breathless, and normally Sam would tease her about that level of incoherence, but, well--
go
--Yeah. Sam goes.
She makes an absolutely obscene sound as he sinks in, like the noise she makes when drinking Tim Hortons' hot chocolate only a million times dirtier, and god, Sam is not one of those guys who complains about condoms, but anyone who tells you it isn't better without is a fucking liar. He grits his teeth, works a hand through her hair. Lifts her off the floor enough for a kiss.
(And jesus, they're going to make such a mess on the tile--
He doesn't care. Fuck, fuck, he really doesn't care.)
Sam rests his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, smells sweat and the two of them mixed. He takes a deep breath--it's just--they've been doing this for a while, now, is the thing, and she's so--
(God, she wrecks him a little, tight and willing, all that wet slick heat.)
Sam works himself as deep as he can get, hips shifting, Andy's leg coming up around his waist. Her fingertips trace ghost patterns across the bruises on his back. He's keeping weight on his good arm as much as he can but the muscles in his shoulders are giving him trouble; he can't get his hands on her as much as he wants.
Andy frowns up at him, curious, cheeks flushed and lips bitten. "Is that--?" she asks (and he doesn't know why he thought maybe she wasn't watching that closely; it's like that in the field sometimes, too, where he assumes she's totally distracted and in reality she's right there at his back). "What do you want me to do?"
Which--jesus. A very many things, if he's telling the truth--he wants her in every position and on every piece of furniture in his house--but for now: "Just," he pulls out and it nearly kills him, how cold the air is, how much he wants her. "On top, I guess, if you--"
If you wouldn't mind is how that sentence ends, and god, Sam doesn't know where his head's at. He simultaneously wants to do all this pointless macho shit with her (biting, christ, marking up all that pretty smooth skin; that two-second image he had of putting her over his knee) but also to cater to her, give her everything she asks for. He's never particularly wanted either before, with a woman, he's just--
(gone on her)
--really worked up.
In the end she winds up in his lap, both of them sitting and Sam's shoulders against the fridge, the chill acting like a balm. McNally bites her lip, pulls him back inside her slippery body. They both make a completely embarrassing sound when he bottoms out; it's the longest they've lasted together, no question, all these fits and starts.
Andy's warm ass comes to rest against his thighs. "Good?" She's watching him through a curtain of her hair, careful.
"Yeah," Sam tells her. And it is; chest to chest, both of his hands free. He rubs at her hips as she starts moving. Sam likes watching her do this (Sam likes watching her do all kinds of things)--damp bangs stuck to her forehead and how she looks when she's finding a rhythm, brow furrowed just the slightest bit. His hands drift down to palm her ass. Something hits right for her, shallow and sliding: Andy's eyes squeeze shut against the sound of her groan.
"Look at me." He doesn't realize how much he wants it until it's already out there but fuck, he does want it, he wants it like he wants to breathe air. "Hey. Look at me."
"Sam--" She's got her face buried in his shoulder; somewhere in the back of his head he remembers that neither one of them died today, so in theory there's no reason for them to be hanging on as tight as they are. She's muffled, wet mouth at his collarbone and the hum of his name all down his neck. "Sam."
"Andy." His voice is completely unfamiliar. She's still moving steady in his lap. "Come on, sweetheart. I got you." Finally Sam makes a fist in that thick, pretty hair and pulls--just a little, not enough to hurt. "Look at me."
So.
Andy looks.
And fuck, that's a trip, her brown eyes gone nearly black with wanting. She's got this expression on her face that he can't read, hidden underneath all that slack gratification; tension maybe, or-- not fear, not exactly, but close enough that Sam strokes the hair off her forehead, pets up her back. Murmurs soothing nonsense, shit like it's okay and I know, sweetheart, I--. He can't believe it, the crap that's coming out of his mouth; really can't believe all the stuff that isn't, the shit he's barely managing not to say.
(Although: Andy's got two fists in the hair at the back of his neck, clutching, and she's not really-- she's looking at him like it means something, all those nothing words, so. This desperation thing they've got going, at least it's, uh. A two way street.)
"Sam," she says again, whining. Her eyes keep falling closed against the feeling. He's got one hand on her face now, thumb stroking over an eyebrow, all that aching tension. "Sam, gonna--"
He knows she is; she keeps clamping on him, skittish. "Shh, sweetheart, I've got you." And normally he'd do something now--flick her clit or palm a breast, help her over the edge--but he wants to watch, is the thing, doesn't want any distractions. He's about thirty seconds from the end himself.
Andy tilts her head back, shoves herself down one more time (beautiful girl with her mouth just open, body damp and furnace-warm in his arms). "That's it," he mutters, pulling her even closer, forehead up against his and her jaw clenching under his palm. "Just like that, sweetheart, you're perfect, you're--"
Which--that last part is maybe not something he was intending to say out loud (that day outside the concert and how he physically couldn't keep his hands off her, that completely irrational need to feel her for himself) but it just--it works, is the thing: there she goes, deep and shuddering, a low animal groan.
(She likes the praise, is a thing that's starting to dawn on him, and that's--
well.
He'll tell her she's perfect every day of the week, is all he's saying.)
"Sam," she gets out, still twitching (he can feel her, tight and jerking, that irregular catch and release). "Don't stop, don't--"
Sam's, uh. Not stopping.
He means to tell her so, but his tongue feels thick; watching her like that was just-- He needed to come about ten seconds ago, is the thing, the way she fought to keep her eyes open (because he asked, jesus, Andy McNally losing it like that and then just letting him see--), and he can't, he really can't. He gets his hands down to her ass instead, lifts a little (she's not quite recovered, jelly-legs and mostly ineffectual thrusting, so Sam just--does it for her.)
She gasps into his mouth, still shuddering. "Sam, please--" Their faces are so close together he thinks he might go cross-eyed looking at her, baby-fine eyelashes and these copper flecks in her irises.
He keeps looking anyway.
Andy tips her head down, tugs at his bottom lip. "Come on," she whispers, "Come on, come on, want to see you, I--"
Christ. Jesus-fucking-Christ and all his saints, Sam is--well. Sam is good and done then, their foreheads butting together, the way she tilts her face until her cold nose is just touching the tip of his. He's pretty sure he says her name (almost says some words after it that would send her clean across Lake Ontario). Knows he makes a noise.
McNally kisses him before it's even over, hands scrabbling at his ears. Greedy. Sam kisses her back until she quiets, her whole body going still and sleepy in his arms. He rubs up and down her spine a bit, taking a minute (he hurts literally everywhere he can think of, feels better than he has in his entire life; it's possible he's shaking a little bit himself). Eventually, she laughs.
"What?" he asks, shifting underneath her (and god, he was right, there's such a fucking mess in between them right now, they're going to have to handle that in a sec). "Something you want to share with the class?"
He feels her smile more than he sees it, the curve of her lips against his skin. "It's just, you know." Andy yawns into his shoulder. "We make a good team."
Sam snorts, head thudding back softly against the door of the fridge. "Yeah, well." He glances up at the clock on the micro; god, it's--it is late. "Been trying to tell you."
"Mm-hmm." McNally yawns again. "Andy is learning to be a better listener."
Sam grins, nudging at her a bit with one shoulder. She's going to pass out if he lets her, which, half in love with her or not (and fuck, he is, he really is, he's gonna have to be so goddamn careful), he's not sleeping sitting up on the kitchen floor. "McNally."
"Hm?" she murmurs, snuggles closer. "It's cold in here now, Sam."
"It's been cold for a while, sweetheart. Come on."
Andy hums a noise of protest into his throat, on the fast track towards nonverbal, but she moves (McNally's a girl who knows go means go, thank god). Standing, she looks sweetly sleepy, all mussed hair and slitted eyes. She blinks, keeps them closed half a beat too long.
All of a sudden she's making a face; Sam looks where she's looking and yeah, her thighs are, uh. Messy. McNally drags a finger through, wipes it off against his shoulder. "Gross."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Thanks so much." And sarcasm, sure, but he doesn't exactly mind, is the thing (he's eye-level for about two seconds before he pushes himself creakily to his feet, and he has this split-second image of just, like, licking it off her, which--yeah. His head's in weird place). He pulls a clean dishcloth out of the bottom drawer, runs it under warm water. Andy leans into him as he wipes them both off.
"At least we don't have to get up," she murmurs, eyes closed. Sam--yeah. It's time for the get-her-in-bed-and-sleep-for-a-week part of the plan.
He'd get her over his shoulder if he was at all confident in his ability to lift his arms at this particular moment; instead he laces his fingers through hers, tugs until she follows him down the hall toward the bedroom. "This is nice," she says sleepily, glancing around at the living room, the shit he's got hanging on the walls. "I, uh. Didn't notice last time."
Sam smirks. "When you came over to take advantage of me and then decided against it?"
"Yup. Then." Andy faceplants sideways across the mattress, long straight line of her back and those skinny ankles hanging off the edge, cold feet dangling in midair. "Are you going to judge me if I don't brush my teeth?" she asks.
Sam laughs and climbs in beside her, nudges her up toward the pillows with one knee. "Not tonight."
"Good." Andy wiggles around a bit, tugging at the sheets, and it's just--McNally naked and getting comfortable on the other side of the bed is probably a thing Sam could get used to, is all. She scoots a little closer, ass pushing at his side until he gets the message, rolls over to stroke at the curve of her hip (and I just do not get people who want to cuddle all the time, he remembers her saying one day in the cruiser, so--he doesn't really know what that's about). "I knew I liked you for a reason."
Sam pets up her rib cage. "Yeah. My lax hygiene standards really bring the ladies." Andy laughs, muffled.
(And he used to think he liked her for no good reason at all--scatterbrained rookie, running around half-cocked with her radio off, not his type--but now, uh. He's pretty sure--
Well. He's pretty sure it's all the reasons.)
"I'm going to need more pancakes in the morning," Andy slurs. She throwing off heat like an electric blanket, too-warm all the way up his front. Sam doesn't move. "Just a forewarning."
"I'll consider myself warned," Sam says, and he is, he really is, he's in so much trouble with her, way over his head, and he knows--
He doesn't particularly care.
"Chocolate chips this time," she adds.
Sam fits his fingers along the dips in her rib cage, downy soft. "McNally. Go to sleep."
She does. Sam stays up for a little while. Just looking.