fic: something nobody with sense would understand (Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam)
Title: something nobody with sense would understand
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 4846
Summary: The one with the proposal.
So. Finally he just breaks down and asks her.
He's been thinking about it for a while, is the thing, for richer or poorer and a ring on her skinny finger--since way before it made any sense to think about. Since way before it made any sense to want. Sam's tried to trace it back, figure if there was some particular moment he decided, looked at her and thought you, but so far he hasn't been able to come up with anything definitive.
(He thinks maybe he sort of always knew.)
This morning she wakes up cranky, hungover and headachey; neither of them fell into bed until late. "Advil," she mumbles, before she's even opened her eyes.
Sam rolls over, squints at the morning. She's got one heavy arm slung over his chest. "In the cabinet."
Andy whines, cold feet brushing his beneath the covers; she scoots closer, nudges at his body with hers (and that's a nice way of putting it, nudges. Actually what she's doing is trying to shove him off the fucking bed). "Will you get it?"
Sam worms away from her bony knees, sighing (but he wasn't the one knocking back crappy sparkling wine, so). "Have a little too much, officer?" he asks, rolling out from under the sheets. Andy flips him off, face still plastered to the mattress.
He pads into the bathroom to collect the Advil, reconsiders and goes back for a glass of water (she can swallow dry, sure, but that's maybe not the best trick to try the wrong side of a hangover). By the time he’s got all the necessary items assembled Andy's sitting up in bed, messy curls gone slightly sticky with last night's hairspray. She holds out her hand, wordless.
"You're welcome," Sam tells her brightly. Andy rolls her eyes and downs the entire glass, three extra-strength pills like she means business. "Remember: one is often enough,'" he quotes as she flops back down mostly on top of him, pointy nose shoved into his neck.
"Shut up," she mutters. He pets over the curve of her skull, smoothing her hair off her face. Thinks, very clearly: marry me, sweetheart.
Sam blinks. He's got weddings on the brain, probably; Nash and Barber tied the knot last night, the scene of the wine-cooler crime along with some truly disturbing dancing on Ollie's part (no head spins; sure, brother, whatever you say). Still: there is, at this particular moment, a rock with Andy's name on it tucked inside an ancient box of condoms in the nightstand (she snoops, McNally, this reflexive copper habit, and after how it happened with Callaghan Sam's not taking any chances). He worked a botched B&E at an antique store not so long ago, saw it in the window; talked himself out of it four different times before he went back.
So. It's not like the idea is just occurring to him now.
(They've talked about it, sort of: few months ago, some drunken fight between two brothers at a function hall off the highway, the bride an angry, terrifying vision in taffeta and lace. "Jesus christ," Andy muttered, futzing distractedly with her radio--it was making some weird sound, she'd been complaining on the way over there. "You better not expect me to wear some ridiculous getup like that when we get married. I don't know how you're supposed to tell the difference between her and the cake."
Sam grinned at her for a good ten, fifteen seconds before she realized what she'd said.)
He shifts her a little, trying to shuffle around so her elbow isn't directly digging into his spleen. Wonders what sort of timeline she was working on, when we get married.
"Never again," Andy groans into his chest. "Being a bridesmaid sucks." Her dress is still hanging over the closet door, some shimmery purple thing Nash let her pick out for herself, wide silk straps; Sam couldn't keep his hands off the cut-out back all evening. "I swear I spent half the night worrying where the stupid bouquet was."
She spent half the night drunk, out on the dance floor with the other rookies, but okay. "Everything went off without a hitch," he reminds her. The happy couple did both the garter and flowers toss, because Barber is a cheesy asshole and Nash is more than willing to let him embarrass himself. Andy was supposed to organize it, which basically amounted to her stuffing the bouquet under their table for safekeeping before the first tequila shots came out. When the time came, Sam had to remind her what she'd done with it.
(She didn't even try, actually, for the flowers. Just sat on Sam's lap at the edge of the dance floor, getting a little too handsy in a way he really, really didn't object to.)
Andy lies quiet for a while with her cheek against his heartbeat, traces the blue lines of his tattoo with one gentle finger. Sam combs absentmindedly through the tangles in her hair. Finally she sighs. "I have to pee," she announces mournfully, like it's the worst news to befall either of them in all the time they've known each other. Like it's really and truly making her sad.
Sam snorts. "So go pee."
"It's far."
"Your life is very difficult," he agrees.
Andy whines like she can't believe he's not being more sympathetic, but in the end it just turns into a giggle. "It is," she insists, biting idly at his shoulder. He can feel the press of her smile against his skin. "You don't even know."
Finally she gets up and fumbles toward the bathroom, morning light hitting the tawny curve of her long, familiar spine. Sam glances at the nightstand, hesitates. Rubs a minute at the back of his neck.
(Week or so ago, late night and sleepy and ten seconds from the end: "You mine?" he asked her, just quiet in her ear. Andy nodded right away, legs coming up even higher, heels pressing into his back--but no, Sam wanted to hear her say it, so just for a second he went totally still. "You mine for good?"
He felt her tense underneath him for the length of a breath, then relax again. One cold foot slid down, rubbed a bit at his calf. "Yeah," Andy said, so soft it was practically a whisper. "Yeah, I'm yours for good.")
Sam considers it, how Sarah would totally kill him once she found out--“you didn't even take her to dinner?"--how McNally would be on the phone with Nash in three seconds flat, honeymoons be damned, your wedding made my boyfriend propose. (He overheard them talking once, her and Nash, working the front desk: "You're the stand-in aunt, okay?" McNally said. "When I have babies, such is your responsibility."
"But An-dy," Nash laughed. "Then when our kids marry it'll be, like, incest."
McNally shook her head, ponytail flipping. "Ugg, whatever, like I want my kids to marry your kids anyways." She chucked a paperclip at Nash's head. "They'll probably have Jerry's goatee gene or something.")
So. All told, Sam doesn't particularly think he's staring down a 'no' here.
(It, uh. Doesn't really help with the nerves.)
He sucks it up and fishes the condom box out of the nightstand, gets his hands on the ring. It's a fiddly little thing, skinny band and still in its original box, sterling silver with decaying velvet lining. He hears the toilet flush and takes a breath, squaring his shoulders.
She's scooping her hair up into a ponytail when she wanders back into the room, notices--and Sam will never forget this as long as he lives--the box of condoms before she notices the ring. "What're you, propositioning me?" she asks him, never mind that they haven't used a condom since the cover apartment ("You're not screwing around with anybody else, are you?" she demanded, blunt and out of breath and like there was very, very much a correct way to answer that question; Sam basically fell all over himself telling her she was the only one). She narrows her eyes for a second, like she can't believe he'd try and put a move on her before the painkillers have even kicked in.
Then she notices the ring.
"Sam," she says, and god, for one second she looks so impossibly young--young like he mostly never thinks of her anymore, young like fresh paint and a radio switched off by mistake. "Sam."
"Hey, McNally," he says, willing his voice as casual as he possibly can. "You, uh. You wanna marry me?"
Her first reaction, honest to god: "But--like--" She's stalled out in the middle of the room, hands still up in her hair and her ponytail half-tied. "I haven't even brushed my teeth yet."
Sam lets out his breath in a laugh, taps the box against his knee. "Yeah, well. You could do that first if you'd like." He'd tease her, he wants to tease her, but the words just aren't coming; he's serious about this, jesus christ. Which--it's not like he didn't know or something, alright, he knew, he's loved her since way the fuck forever and thought about this for even longer (when Callaghan put that ring on her finger, for some reason that's what made him picture it: at the time he figured she'd leave her hair in the drain and hog the mirror, processed food stacked up in the refrigerator. Too young to get married--sure, sure.
Although: back then, he always kind of figured he'd want to have some fun with her, if she ever came around. Not causal per se, because he always--well. Casual was never an option there--but just sort of easy, his and hers undercover operations and not a five year plan in sight. Only then he got her on her back, big brown eyes and J.D.'s crappy sheets, and--yeah. Turns out that wasn't what he wanted at all.)
So: he knew, he definitely knew. But somehow it's still hitting him all at once, nerves or something. McNally lowers her hands, hair elastic knotted one too few times and slipping; she looks stunned. "No, I mean I--" All of a sudden she blanches. "Well, no, I mean, yes, obviously, just no to, like. The teeth thing."
Something lights on fire in Sam's chest, this bright burn. "McNally," he says slowly, grinning. "Was that a--?"
"Yes," she says, and launches herself at him, headache apparently forgotten (and god, the smile on her; Sam would have asked her a long time ago if he'd known she was going to smile like that). "God, of course it's a--it's a yes." She lands sprawled in his lap, long limbs everyplace and knocking him backwards; gets her hands on either side of his face to kiss him long and friendly. Then she grabs anxiously for the box. "Give it."
(Sam's, uh. Smiling pretty hard himself.)
"Gimme your hand," he tells her--if they’re gonna do this, he wants to do it right--and waits for her to hold it out obediently; he gets the thing onto her skinny finger, grinning like a fool the whole time. The fit's pretty much right on. "There."
"There," Andy repeats softly, like she can hardly believe it. She peers at her finger, a bit of sparkle in the light. "It's pretty," she says decisively; then, already making for the edge of the bed: "God, Traci's gonna have a heart attack."
Sam catches her by the ankle, tugs until she turns around. "McNally," he tells her, laughing a little. "Just, like. Stay for a second, okay?"
She grins again, that same killer smile. "Oh, right." There's a warm blur of skin and then she's back in his lap, arms curling around his neck. "You did just propose and everything," she says, like she's thinking it over. "I should probably pay attention to you."
Sam hmms against her temple. "At least for three minutes," he agrees. "You know. For appearances."
Andy bites his ear, giggling. "Oh, is that how long it's taking you these days?" She nudges his mouth up for a kiss before he has time to get affronted (well: time to pretend to get affronted, more like--Sam's pretty sure nothing is going to be able to piss him off for oh, say, the next year and a half). "So-o," she sing-songs, pulling back. "I'm irresistible when I'm hungover, huh?"
"Definitely," Sam tells her. He's working his hands through her hair, last night's curls snagging around his fingers; she smells like hairspray and sleep. "That's how you should start off the story, when you tell people."
Andy lights up again then, tell people, and Sam--yeah. He knows exactly how she feels. (Their whole lives--that's going to be the story they tell people their whole lives.)
"So, uh." Andy brings her hand up in front of them, peering at the ring. "How long have you have this kicking around?"
"Couple of weeks," he tells her, which is the technical truth but doesn't feel honest, so: "Been thinking about it for a while."
Andy snorts, shoves him backwards until his head hits the pillows. Flops down beside him. "Yeah," she declares, all confidence, propping herself up on one elbow. Her long legs tangle with his. "Like, since you met me."
She's kidding, but she's also not wrong (his wife, she's going to be his-- it changes things. It does). "Well," Sam says slowly, considering. "Pretty much."
She likes that; she always has. ("I knew you had a crush on me," she told him, the very first time he got her naked. At the sight of Sam's raised eyebrows she only laughed. "Whatever, don't be stoic. I had a crush on you too.") She pushes her hips at him a bit, teasing--then again, harder, this time with clear intent. Her free hand scratches at the hair on his chest. Slides lower.
"McNally." Sam smirks (and he's half-hard as soon as she touches him, no point in pretending otherwise). "Something you need?"
"Come on," she says, shifting so she's almost already on top, warm soft body and that goofy, wicked grin. "Let's see if it feels different."
Sam already knows it's going to, how he's feeling right now alone, like he's been knocked on his ass by happiness or something, too much champagne. He wants to work his mouth between her legs and just go for hours, get her feeling it too (and all because she said yes, jesus christ, he doesn't even--)
"Yeah, definitely," he tells her. Collects her roving hand and tugs until she's sprawled across his chest, pointy chin knocking off his shoulder. "Gotta make sure this is worth it."
"Mmm-hmm." Andy's legs are sliding open already, the hot press of her against his thigh (and Sam can practically hear Sarah in his ear, didn't take her to dinner, didn't even let her put some pants on, but he likes her like this, no makeup and the scritch of her pubic hair). "I need a husband who can satisfy me," she agrees, grinning into his neck. She's lining them up, hips rocking, but Sam wants-- he knocks her legs apart with his own, gets rid of her leverage.
(It's just-- husband.)
"Come here," he says, tugging at the back of her thigh (and his voice has dropped maybe an octave and a half, so. There is that). Andy looks puzzled for a second, up on her hands and knees over his stomach, like maybe she thinks he's after her breasts (which: later, he just--) "No, sweetheart, here," he tells her, tugging harder.
And-- yeah, she gets the message then.
"Oh." Andy grins down at him and scoots forward until she's sitting on his chest, knees splayed on either side. "I haven't showered, either," she warns, like that's ever in the whole time they've been together been something that deterred him (the opposite, actually, if he's being totally honest). "In addition to my dog breath."
"Letting yourself go already," Sam mutters, then gets his hands on the curve of her ass and pulls her the rest of the way.
He's only just gentle, for the most part (it's early yet, mid-morning; they've got the rest of their lives), palms on her hipbones and kisses on the insides of her thighs. Andy hums. She's got her eyes shut and hands braced on the headboard, face tipped forward and ponytail falling out. Sam reaches up for the elastic, tugs it the rest of the way. Watches her smile.
(Was the smile that did it, actually, way back when in the parking lot of the Penny. That was how he knew.)
Sam gets both hands back on her body, strokes up her thighs and around her waist. Mouths at her a bit. "You're totally going to stop doing this after the wedding, aren't you?" she says, legs sliding further apart as he works a hand between, opens her up. She's still a little swollen from last night, the other side of the wine cooler incident, how they couldn't wait.
"Mmm, definitely." He licks up the whole length of her, sloppy and gentle. "You're looking at a future full of nothing but missionary position."
"I would maybe not mind that," she murmurs, panting around her words already. Which--okay, it is one of her favourite positions, the way she kept pulling him on top of her at the beginning, I like it like this, until finally he bought a clue... But then right in the same breath she's shoving her hips down, pushy. Sam laughs, sucks at her clit obligingly. Pets up her bossy spine.
"You'd mind," he tells her, sliding both hands down to her ass. He pulls her in further, lets her grind against him for a moment. "You'd totally mind."
"Well," Andy says, considering. "Maybe a little."
Sam grins. "Yeah," he tells her, adds a finger (just one, just slowly. He wants to take his time). She tastes salty and familiar, like herself; already his chin is slick with it. Andy makes a quiet sound at the back of her throat. "That's what I thought."
"Know it all," she mutters; then: "You still gonna want me when I'm old and decrepit?"
"Uh-uh," Sam says immediately, nipping a bit. "Gonna trade you in for a younger model."
Andy snorts. "Good luck." She whines a little, pushes with her hips like she's looking for more; reaches down and threads her fingers through his hair. "What about when I'm fat and huge with a million stretch marks from having all your babies?"
Which--
(He's thought about it, obviously, in the abstract--a house and kids, the whole package. Dog sleeping in the backyard. Still, hearing her say it, imagining her being--)
It's possible the reality sort of stops him in his tracks.
"What?" she asks, looking down and frowning at him, teasing. The muscles in her ass flex against his palm. "Am I getting ahead of myself?"
"Sweetheart," Sam says, recovering. He gives her what she's after, another finger inside. "I honestly can't imagine a universe where I don't want you."
Andy makes a face through the fall of her hair, half-eye roll, half-moan. "Overkill, seriously," she pants, rocking forward again. "I'm already marrying you here, Swarek." But: she definitely doesn't look displeased.
Sam wants to tell her other things, make all sorts of ridiculous promises; talk a bit more about these hypothetical babies, how apparently there's more than one of them (how badly he really--how he wants there to be more than one of them), but his mouth is otherwise occupied. Probably it's for the best, am I getting ahead of myself?, etc., only--well. It's possible Sam wouldn't exactly mind getting ahead of themselves. Like, okay: one of those pie-in-the-sky, five-, ten-year plans she always used to talk about? He maybe wouldn't mind having one of those.
(Hell, they could go for broke, make it a twenty-year--
fifty--
Yeah.)
Andy's hips are getting bossy, pushing like she always does right near the end; she whines when he crosses his fingers inside, crooks them forward. "It feels different," she gasps out suddenly. "Sam. It feels really really--"
She trails off when she goes over, loses the rest of it in whimper (Sam gets the general idea, though, has to consciously tamp down a grin to keep going). He rubs from her ass up her side and back again while she rides it out. She's got her eyes squeezed shut and both hands braced against the headboard in front of her; Sam bites at the crease of her thigh as she's coming down.
"Um," she says after a minute, swallowing audibly, sliding backwards down his body 'til she's got her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. She leaves a slippery trail all down his chest. "Yeah."
Sam lets himself grin now, hard and bright into the crown of her head. "And we're not even legal yet."
"Mm." Andy sighs against his collarbone; Sam messes through her hair for a minute, wonders if she might fall back to sleep. He rubs his thumb idly over a bruise at the bend of her arm. (Last night at the wedding, a squeeze of his hand and meet me outside in five minutes--next thing Sam knew she was on his lap in the passenger seat of the truck, all bony knees and the smell of alcohol mixed with perfume, her elbow smacking the window as she muscled her arms around his neck. "Is this why we've never done it in the car before?" she asked, giggling wildly; Sam glanced over her shoulder at the lights in the distance, slid inside her all at once.
She, uh. Stopped laughing after that.)
"Okay." Andy leverages herself up suddenly, this flurry of activity like they're leaving a football huddle or something; aaaand break. She plants a hand on either side of his shoulders, take a good long look. Leans down to suck at the sticky patches she left across his chest. "Now it's your turn," she announces. "Preview of our marriage, right here."
"Oh yeah?" Sam cups her hips. "Gonna blow my mind?"
Andy holds up a finger. She's got one of her stretched-out grins on, crazy-bright and silly. "You laugh now, Swarek," she tells him. "Just wait. S'different." She reaches down to tuck him against her--not inside or anything, not even lining them up, just laying him along the length of her, this insanely wet tease.
"How's that?" Sam asks, although okay, he's definitely already--she's going to marry him. It's a lot. "You torture me to death?"
"That." Another finger, like she's ticking off a list. "And also--" her hips start up, this slow slide "--probably you should keep in mind how kinky I'm going to let you get by our tenth anniversary. I'm just saying."
And that--well. That's got him grinning back. "You're just saying, huh?" he asks, lifting his chin a bit to get at that smile; Andy feints and goes for his earlobe instead.
"Sure," she mutters, nipping a little. She laces her fingers through his and muscles his arms back against the pillow, that sleep-warm body stretched out all on top of him. "We'll be one of those nice suburban couples everybody thinks is so normal, but secretly--" Andy slides down onto his cock in one smooth, practiced motion, hard and fast and good enough that he groans. "Total freaks."
Sam hmms a low, distracted answer. Andy laughs. She shifts around a bit, getting comfortable; sits up straight with her shoulders back and lets him stare. She's still holding on to his hands. "Sam," she orders quietly, hair mussed and gaze steady. "Say it's different."
Sam smiles, recognizing the tilt of her chin. (It's another kind of bossy she sometimes gets, late at night and her legs tight around his hips; tell me. The first few times his heart damn near tripped out of his chest, a carte blanche to mutter ridiculously romantic nonsense in her ear, them still so new and careful. And then later, after they got back together and she apparently needed to hear it a lot, she asked right near the end like clockwork. Like she was checking.
He's always loved telling her.)
"Yeah, sweetheart," Sam says. He can feel the ring actually, twisted around on her finger and the rock just biting into his skin. He squeezes that hand reflexively, keeps squeezing until it hurts a little. "It's different."
Andy hums at him a bit, like she's satisfied. "I told you." She's working a slow, heavy rhythm, pulling almost all the way off before she sits down again, warm ass against his thighs and long muscles moving under her skin. She shoves forward a bit on the downstroke, gasps like something's hitting right. Squeezes back. "I told you it was."
"Yeah." Sam nods, tugs her forward so they're chest to chest again (he's close, is the thing, all that slick wet heat; he likes to feel her). He cups one hand at the nape of her neck. Andy kisses him long and deep this time, licks her way into his mouth until both of them are panting. Sam feels it buzzing in the base of his spine. "Andy--"
"Love you," she mutters, like she knows exactly what's gonna do it. "Wanna be your wife."
That works all right, as well as if she'd reached inside him and snapped the tightening coil herself; Sam comes with a groan and his head tucked against her shoulder, one of her hands lying between them on his chest, the cold metal of her ring. And god, she's--it is different, overwhelming in a weird, good way. When it's over Sam feels like someone wrung out his spine.
"There," Andy says, quiet in his ear. She nudges at him (and it's possible Sam just wants to stay like this for a second, face hidden in her hair, but--she's insistent, McNally). When he tips his chin over to kiss her again, her eyes are fever bright. "Really, really want to marry you," she repeats. Her hips are still working against his, irregular, like she can't quite help it; Sam gets a hand down between them to help her out.
"Shit," Andy hisses as he finds her clit. "Okay, just--"
"I love you," he tells her. He still wants to make the most ridiculous promises. He feels her start to go over, clenching so hard he slips out, gives her two fingers as a replacement. She cries out a bit as it happens, sharp and quiet; Sam pushes with the heel of his hand until she's through.
"So, um," she says a minute later, dead weight and stroking along his collarbone, the pad of her index finger over and over against his skin. "I feel good about, like. The consummating part."
"Oh yeah?" Sam laughs and the vibration of it sets Andy off, too--both of them stupid and giddy, sleepy and sex-loose. "That right?"
"Yeah," she manages once she's pulled it together a bit, nods into the muscle of his chest. "I mean, I feel pretty good about the rest of it, also. To tell you the truth."
"Mm." Sam feels pretty good about the rest of it, himself. "Me too."
They fall back to sleep like that--sheets half on the floor and the window open, diamond on her hand catching the light.
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 4846
Summary: The one with the proposal.
So. Finally he just breaks down and asks her.
He's been thinking about it for a while, is the thing, for richer or poorer and a ring on her skinny finger--since way before it made any sense to think about. Since way before it made any sense to want. Sam's tried to trace it back, figure if there was some particular moment he decided, looked at her and thought you, but so far he hasn't been able to come up with anything definitive.
(He thinks maybe he sort of always knew.)
This morning she wakes up cranky, hungover and headachey; neither of them fell into bed until late. "Advil," she mumbles, before she's even opened her eyes.
Sam rolls over, squints at the morning. She's got one heavy arm slung over his chest. "In the cabinet."
Andy whines, cold feet brushing his beneath the covers; she scoots closer, nudges at his body with hers (and that's a nice way of putting it, nudges. Actually what she's doing is trying to shove him off the fucking bed). "Will you get it?"
Sam worms away from her bony knees, sighing (but he wasn't the one knocking back crappy sparkling wine, so). "Have a little too much, officer?" he asks, rolling out from under the sheets. Andy flips him off, face still plastered to the mattress.
He pads into the bathroom to collect the Advil, reconsiders and goes back for a glass of water (she can swallow dry, sure, but that's maybe not the best trick to try the wrong side of a hangover). By the time he’s got all the necessary items assembled Andy's sitting up in bed, messy curls gone slightly sticky with last night's hairspray. She holds out her hand, wordless.
"You're welcome," Sam tells her brightly. Andy rolls her eyes and downs the entire glass, three extra-strength pills like she means business. "Remember: one is often enough,'" he quotes as she flops back down mostly on top of him, pointy nose shoved into his neck.
"Shut up," she mutters. He pets over the curve of her skull, smoothing her hair off her face. Thinks, very clearly: marry me, sweetheart.
Sam blinks. He's got weddings on the brain, probably; Nash and Barber tied the knot last night, the scene of the wine-cooler crime along with some truly disturbing dancing on Ollie's part (no head spins; sure, brother, whatever you say). Still: there is, at this particular moment, a rock with Andy's name on it tucked inside an ancient box of condoms in the nightstand (she snoops, McNally, this reflexive copper habit, and after how it happened with Callaghan Sam's not taking any chances). He worked a botched B&E at an antique store not so long ago, saw it in the window; talked himself out of it four different times before he went back.
So. It's not like the idea is just occurring to him now.
(They've talked about it, sort of: few months ago, some drunken fight between two brothers at a function hall off the highway, the bride an angry, terrifying vision in taffeta and lace. "Jesus christ," Andy muttered, futzing distractedly with her radio--it was making some weird sound, she'd been complaining on the way over there. "You better not expect me to wear some ridiculous getup like that when we get married. I don't know how you're supposed to tell the difference between her and the cake."
Sam grinned at her for a good ten, fifteen seconds before she realized what she'd said.)
He shifts her a little, trying to shuffle around so her elbow isn't directly digging into his spleen. Wonders what sort of timeline she was working on, when we get married.
"Never again," Andy groans into his chest. "Being a bridesmaid sucks." Her dress is still hanging over the closet door, some shimmery purple thing Nash let her pick out for herself, wide silk straps; Sam couldn't keep his hands off the cut-out back all evening. "I swear I spent half the night worrying where the stupid bouquet was."
She spent half the night drunk, out on the dance floor with the other rookies, but okay. "Everything went off without a hitch," he reminds her. The happy couple did both the garter and flowers toss, because Barber is a cheesy asshole and Nash is more than willing to let him embarrass himself. Andy was supposed to organize it, which basically amounted to her stuffing the bouquet under their table for safekeeping before the first tequila shots came out. When the time came, Sam had to remind her what she'd done with it.
(She didn't even try, actually, for the flowers. Just sat on Sam's lap at the edge of the dance floor, getting a little too handsy in a way he really, really didn't object to.)
Andy lies quiet for a while with her cheek against his heartbeat, traces the blue lines of his tattoo with one gentle finger. Sam combs absentmindedly through the tangles in her hair. Finally she sighs. "I have to pee," she announces mournfully, like it's the worst news to befall either of them in all the time they've known each other. Like it's really and truly making her sad.
Sam snorts. "So go pee."
"It's far."
"Your life is very difficult," he agrees.
Andy whines like she can't believe he's not being more sympathetic, but in the end it just turns into a giggle. "It is," she insists, biting idly at his shoulder. He can feel the press of her smile against his skin. "You don't even know."
Finally she gets up and fumbles toward the bathroom, morning light hitting the tawny curve of her long, familiar spine. Sam glances at the nightstand, hesitates. Rubs a minute at the back of his neck.
(Week or so ago, late night and sleepy and ten seconds from the end: "You mine?" he asked her, just quiet in her ear. Andy nodded right away, legs coming up even higher, heels pressing into his back--but no, Sam wanted to hear her say it, so just for a second he went totally still. "You mine for good?"
He felt her tense underneath him for the length of a breath, then relax again. One cold foot slid down, rubbed a bit at his calf. "Yeah," Andy said, so soft it was practically a whisper. "Yeah, I'm yours for good.")
Sam considers it, how Sarah would totally kill him once she found out--“you didn't even take her to dinner?"--how McNally would be on the phone with Nash in three seconds flat, honeymoons be damned, your wedding made my boyfriend propose. (He overheard them talking once, her and Nash, working the front desk: "You're the stand-in aunt, okay?" McNally said. "When I have babies, such is your responsibility."
"But An-dy," Nash laughed. "Then when our kids marry it'll be, like, incest."
McNally shook her head, ponytail flipping. "Ugg, whatever, like I want my kids to marry your kids anyways." She chucked a paperclip at Nash's head. "They'll probably have Jerry's goatee gene or something.")
So. All told, Sam doesn't particularly think he's staring down a 'no' here.
(It, uh. Doesn't really help with the nerves.)
He sucks it up and fishes the condom box out of the nightstand, gets his hands on the ring. It's a fiddly little thing, skinny band and still in its original box, sterling silver with decaying velvet lining. He hears the toilet flush and takes a breath, squaring his shoulders.
She's scooping her hair up into a ponytail when she wanders back into the room, notices--and Sam will never forget this as long as he lives--the box of condoms before she notices the ring. "What're you, propositioning me?" she asks him, never mind that they haven't used a condom since the cover apartment ("You're not screwing around with anybody else, are you?" she demanded, blunt and out of breath and like there was very, very much a correct way to answer that question; Sam basically fell all over himself telling her she was the only one). She narrows her eyes for a second, like she can't believe he'd try and put a move on her before the painkillers have even kicked in.
Then she notices the ring.
"Sam," she says, and god, for one second she looks so impossibly young--young like he mostly never thinks of her anymore, young like fresh paint and a radio switched off by mistake. "Sam."
"Hey, McNally," he says, willing his voice as casual as he possibly can. "You, uh. You wanna marry me?"
Her first reaction, honest to god: "But--like--" She's stalled out in the middle of the room, hands still up in her hair and her ponytail half-tied. "I haven't even brushed my teeth yet."
Sam lets out his breath in a laugh, taps the box against his knee. "Yeah, well. You could do that first if you'd like." He'd tease her, he wants to tease her, but the words just aren't coming; he's serious about this, jesus christ. Which--it's not like he didn't know or something, alright, he knew, he's loved her since way the fuck forever and thought about this for even longer (when Callaghan put that ring on her finger, for some reason that's what made him picture it: at the time he figured she'd leave her hair in the drain and hog the mirror, processed food stacked up in the refrigerator. Too young to get married--sure, sure.
Although: back then, he always kind of figured he'd want to have some fun with her, if she ever came around. Not causal per se, because he always--well. Casual was never an option there--but just sort of easy, his and hers undercover operations and not a five year plan in sight. Only then he got her on her back, big brown eyes and J.D.'s crappy sheets, and--yeah. Turns out that wasn't what he wanted at all.)
So: he knew, he definitely knew. But somehow it's still hitting him all at once, nerves or something. McNally lowers her hands, hair elastic knotted one too few times and slipping; she looks stunned. "No, I mean I--" All of a sudden she blanches. "Well, no, I mean, yes, obviously, just no to, like. The teeth thing."
Something lights on fire in Sam's chest, this bright burn. "McNally," he says slowly, grinning. "Was that a--?"
"Yes," she says, and launches herself at him, headache apparently forgotten (and god, the smile on her; Sam would have asked her a long time ago if he'd known she was going to smile like that). "God, of course it's a--it's a yes." She lands sprawled in his lap, long limbs everyplace and knocking him backwards; gets her hands on either side of his face to kiss him long and friendly. Then she grabs anxiously for the box. "Give it."
(Sam's, uh. Smiling pretty hard himself.)
"Gimme your hand," he tells her--if they’re gonna do this, he wants to do it right--and waits for her to hold it out obediently; he gets the thing onto her skinny finger, grinning like a fool the whole time. The fit's pretty much right on. "There."
"There," Andy repeats softly, like she can hardly believe it. She peers at her finger, a bit of sparkle in the light. "It's pretty," she says decisively; then, already making for the edge of the bed: "God, Traci's gonna have a heart attack."
Sam catches her by the ankle, tugs until she turns around. "McNally," he tells her, laughing a little. "Just, like. Stay for a second, okay?"
She grins again, that same killer smile. "Oh, right." There's a warm blur of skin and then she's back in his lap, arms curling around his neck. "You did just propose and everything," she says, like she's thinking it over. "I should probably pay attention to you."
Sam hmms against her temple. "At least for three minutes," he agrees. "You know. For appearances."
Andy bites his ear, giggling. "Oh, is that how long it's taking you these days?" She nudges his mouth up for a kiss before he has time to get affronted (well: time to pretend to get affronted, more like--Sam's pretty sure nothing is going to be able to piss him off for oh, say, the next year and a half). "So-o," she sing-songs, pulling back. "I'm irresistible when I'm hungover, huh?"
"Definitely," Sam tells her. He's working his hands through her hair, last night's curls snagging around his fingers; she smells like hairspray and sleep. "That's how you should start off the story, when you tell people."
Andy lights up again then, tell people, and Sam--yeah. He knows exactly how she feels. (Their whole lives--that's going to be the story they tell people their whole lives.)
"So, uh." Andy brings her hand up in front of them, peering at the ring. "How long have you have this kicking around?"
"Couple of weeks," he tells her, which is the technical truth but doesn't feel honest, so: "Been thinking about it for a while."
Andy snorts, shoves him backwards until his head hits the pillows. Flops down beside him. "Yeah," she declares, all confidence, propping herself up on one elbow. Her long legs tangle with his. "Like, since you met me."
She's kidding, but she's also not wrong (his wife, she's going to be his-- it changes things. It does). "Well," Sam says slowly, considering. "Pretty much."
She likes that; she always has. ("I knew you had a crush on me," she told him, the very first time he got her naked. At the sight of Sam's raised eyebrows she only laughed. "Whatever, don't be stoic. I had a crush on you too.") She pushes her hips at him a bit, teasing--then again, harder, this time with clear intent. Her free hand scratches at the hair on his chest. Slides lower.
"McNally." Sam smirks (and he's half-hard as soon as she touches him, no point in pretending otherwise). "Something you need?"
"Come on," she says, shifting so she's almost already on top, warm soft body and that goofy, wicked grin. "Let's see if it feels different."
Sam already knows it's going to, how he's feeling right now alone, like he's been knocked on his ass by happiness or something, too much champagne. He wants to work his mouth between her legs and just go for hours, get her feeling it too (and all because she said yes, jesus christ, he doesn't even--)
"Yeah, definitely," he tells her. Collects her roving hand and tugs until she's sprawled across his chest, pointy chin knocking off his shoulder. "Gotta make sure this is worth it."
"Mmm-hmm." Andy's legs are sliding open already, the hot press of her against his thigh (and Sam can practically hear Sarah in his ear, didn't take her to dinner, didn't even let her put some pants on, but he likes her like this, no makeup and the scritch of her pubic hair). "I need a husband who can satisfy me," she agrees, grinning into his neck. She's lining them up, hips rocking, but Sam wants-- he knocks her legs apart with his own, gets rid of her leverage.
(It's just-- husband.)
"Come here," he says, tugging at the back of her thigh (and his voice has dropped maybe an octave and a half, so. There is that). Andy looks puzzled for a second, up on her hands and knees over his stomach, like maybe she thinks he's after her breasts (which: later, he just--) "No, sweetheart, here," he tells her, tugging harder.
And-- yeah, she gets the message then.
"Oh." Andy grins down at him and scoots forward until she's sitting on his chest, knees splayed on either side. "I haven't showered, either," she warns, like that's ever in the whole time they've been together been something that deterred him (the opposite, actually, if he's being totally honest). "In addition to my dog breath."
"Letting yourself go already," Sam mutters, then gets his hands on the curve of her ass and pulls her the rest of the way.
He's only just gentle, for the most part (it's early yet, mid-morning; they've got the rest of their lives), palms on her hipbones and kisses on the insides of her thighs. Andy hums. She's got her eyes shut and hands braced on the headboard, face tipped forward and ponytail falling out. Sam reaches up for the elastic, tugs it the rest of the way. Watches her smile.
(Was the smile that did it, actually, way back when in the parking lot of the Penny. That was how he knew.)
Sam gets both hands back on her body, strokes up her thighs and around her waist. Mouths at her a bit. "You're totally going to stop doing this after the wedding, aren't you?" she says, legs sliding further apart as he works a hand between, opens her up. She's still a little swollen from last night, the other side of the wine cooler incident, how they couldn't wait.
"Mmm, definitely." He licks up the whole length of her, sloppy and gentle. "You're looking at a future full of nothing but missionary position."
"I would maybe not mind that," she murmurs, panting around her words already. Which--okay, it is one of her favourite positions, the way she kept pulling him on top of her at the beginning, I like it like this, until finally he bought a clue... But then right in the same breath she's shoving her hips down, pushy. Sam laughs, sucks at her clit obligingly. Pets up her bossy spine.
"You'd mind," he tells her, sliding both hands down to her ass. He pulls her in further, lets her grind against him for a moment. "You'd totally mind."
"Well," Andy says, considering. "Maybe a little."
Sam grins. "Yeah," he tells her, adds a finger (just one, just slowly. He wants to take his time). She tastes salty and familiar, like herself; already his chin is slick with it. Andy makes a quiet sound at the back of her throat. "That's what I thought."
"Know it all," she mutters; then: "You still gonna want me when I'm old and decrepit?"
"Uh-uh," Sam says immediately, nipping a bit. "Gonna trade you in for a younger model."
Andy snorts. "Good luck." She whines a little, pushes with her hips like she's looking for more; reaches down and threads her fingers through his hair. "What about when I'm fat and huge with a million stretch marks from having all your babies?"
Which--
(He's thought about it, obviously, in the abstract--a house and kids, the whole package. Dog sleeping in the backyard. Still, hearing her say it, imagining her being--)
It's possible the reality sort of stops him in his tracks.
"What?" she asks, looking down and frowning at him, teasing. The muscles in her ass flex against his palm. "Am I getting ahead of myself?"
"Sweetheart," Sam says, recovering. He gives her what she's after, another finger inside. "I honestly can't imagine a universe where I don't want you."
Andy makes a face through the fall of her hair, half-eye roll, half-moan. "Overkill, seriously," she pants, rocking forward again. "I'm already marrying you here, Swarek." But: she definitely doesn't look displeased.
Sam wants to tell her other things, make all sorts of ridiculous promises; talk a bit more about these hypothetical babies, how apparently there's more than one of them (how badly he really--how he wants there to be more than one of them), but his mouth is otherwise occupied. Probably it's for the best, am I getting ahead of myself?, etc., only--well. It's possible Sam wouldn't exactly mind getting ahead of themselves. Like, okay: one of those pie-in-the-sky, five-, ten-year plans she always used to talk about? He maybe wouldn't mind having one of those.
(Hell, they could go for broke, make it a twenty-year--
fifty--
Yeah.)
Andy's hips are getting bossy, pushing like she always does right near the end; she whines when he crosses his fingers inside, crooks them forward. "It feels different," she gasps out suddenly. "Sam. It feels really really--"
She trails off when she goes over, loses the rest of it in whimper (Sam gets the general idea, though, has to consciously tamp down a grin to keep going). He rubs from her ass up her side and back again while she rides it out. She's got her eyes squeezed shut and both hands braced against the headboard in front of her; Sam bites at the crease of her thigh as she's coming down.
"Um," she says after a minute, swallowing audibly, sliding backwards down his body 'til she's got her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder. She leaves a slippery trail all down his chest. "Yeah."
Sam lets himself grin now, hard and bright into the crown of her head. "And we're not even legal yet."
"Mm." Andy sighs against his collarbone; Sam messes through her hair for a minute, wonders if she might fall back to sleep. He rubs his thumb idly over a bruise at the bend of her arm. (Last night at the wedding, a squeeze of his hand and meet me outside in five minutes--next thing Sam knew she was on his lap in the passenger seat of the truck, all bony knees and the smell of alcohol mixed with perfume, her elbow smacking the window as she muscled her arms around his neck. "Is this why we've never done it in the car before?" she asked, giggling wildly; Sam glanced over her shoulder at the lights in the distance, slid inside her all at once.
She, uh. Stopped laughing after that.)
"Okay." Andy leverages herself up suddenly, this flurry of activity like they're leaving a football huddle or something; aaaand break. She plants a hand on either side of his shoulders, take a good long look. Leans down to suck at the sticky patches she left across his chest. "Now it's your turn," she announces. "Preview of our marriage, right here."
"Oh yeah?" Sam cups her hips. "Gonna blow my mind?"
Andy holds up a finger. She's got one of her stretched-out grins on, crazy-bright and silly. "You laugh now, Swarek," she tells him. "Just wait. S'different." She reaches down to tuck him against her--not inside or anything, not even lining them up, just laying him along the length of her, this insanely wet tease.
"How's that?" Sam asks, although okay, he's definitely already--she's going to marry him. It's a lot. "You torture me to death?"
"That." Another finger, like she's ticking off a list. "And also--" her hips start up, this slow slide "--probably you should keep in mind how kinky I'm going to let you get by our tenth anniversary. I'm just saying."
And that--well. That's got him grinning back. "You're just saying, huh?" he asks, lifting his chin a bit to get at that smile; Andy feints and goes for his earlobe instead.
"Sure," she mutters, nipping a little. She laces her fingers through his and muscles his arms back against the pillow, that sleep-warm body stretched out all on top of him. "We'll be one of those nice suburban couples everybody thinks is so normal, but secretly--" Andy slides down onto his cock in one smooth, practiced motion, hard and fast and good enough that he groans. "Total freaks."
Sam hmms a low, distracted answer. Andy laughs. She shifts around a bit, getting comfortable; sits up straight with her shoulders back and lets him stare. She's still holding on to his hands. "Sam," she orders quietly, hair mussed and gaze steady. "Say it's different."
Sam smiles, recognizing the tilt of her chin. (It's another kind of bossy she sometimes gets, late at night and her legs tight around his hips; tell me. The first few times his heart damn near tripped out of his chest, a carte blanche to mutter ridiculously romantic nonsense in her ear, them still so new and careful. And then later, after they got back together and she apparently needed to hear it a lot, she asked right near the end like clockwork. Like she was checking.
He's always loved telling her.)
"Yeah, sweetheart," Sam says. He can feel the ring actually, twisted around on her finger and the rock just biting into his skin. He squeezes that hand reflexively, keeps squeezing until it hurts a little. "It's different."
Andy hums at him a bit, like she's satisfied. "I told you." She's working a slow, heavy rhythm, pulling almost all the way off before she sits down again, warm ass against his thighs and long muscles moving under her skin. She shoves forward a bit on the downstroke, gasps like something's hitting right. Squeezes back. "I told you it was."
"Yeah." Sam nods, tugs her forward so they're chest to chest again (he's close, is the thing, all that slick wet heat; he likes to feel her). He cups one hand at the nape of her neck. Andy kisses him long and deep this time, licks her way into his mouth until both of them are panting. Sam feels it buzzing in the base of his spine. "Andy--"
"Love you," she mutters, like she knows exactly what's gonna do it. "Wanna be your wife."
That works all right, as well as if she'd reached inside him and snapped the tightening coil herself; Sam comes with a groan and his head tucked against her shoulder, one of her hands lying between them on his chest, the cold metal of her ring. And god, she's--it is different, overwhelming in a weird, good way. When it's over Sam feels like someone wrung out his spine.
"There," Andy says, quiet in his ear. She nudges at him (and it's possible Sam just wants to stay like this for a second, face hidden in her hair, but--she's insistent, McNally). When he tips his chin over to kiss her again, her eyes are fever bright. "Really, really want to marry you," she repeats. Her hips are still working against his, irregular, like she can't quite help it; Sam gets a hand down between them to help her out.
"Shit," Andy hisses as he finds her clit. "Okay, just--"
"I love you," he tells her. He still wants to make the most ridiculous promises. He feels her start to go over, clenching so hard he slips out, gives her two fingers as a replacement. She cries out a bit as it happens, sharp and quiet; Sam pushes with the heel of his hand until she's through.
"So, um," she says a minute later, dead weight and stroking along his collarbone, the pad of her index finger over and over against his skin. "I feel good about, like. The consummating part."
"Oh yeah?" Sam laughs and the vibration of it sets Andy off, too--both of them stupid and giddy, sleepy and sex-loose. "That right?"
"Yeah," she manages once she's pulled it together a bit, nods into the muscle of his chest. "I mean, I feel pretty good about the rest of it, also. To tell you the truth."
"Mm." Sam feels pretty good about the rest of it, himself. "Me too."
They fall back to sleep like that--sheets half on the floor and the window open, diamond on her hand catching the light.