FIC: fools in a spiral round this town of steel [rookie blue, sam/andy]
Title: fools in a spiral round this town of steel
Authors: lowriseflare and threeguesses
Rating: PG (I KNOW, FOR REAL, WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?)
Word Count: 6500+
Summary: The one with the... man, how did we even pitch this? The one between the sparring scene and the almost-kiss in 2x10.
AN: We legitimately just dared each other to write one without porn. IT WENT SURPRISINGLY WELL.
Three days after the quarantine, she starts drinking out of his coffee cup.
"I'm at Bargaining," she announces in parade, sidling up to him and grabbing the travel mug right out of his hands. "You were totally right, though, I was definitely stuck on Anger." She twists the top off to check the temperature, blows a bit. "I've decided to skip Depression next and move right on to Acceptance."
Sam raises his eyebrows. "You can do that?" (She totally has time to go to the coffeemaker, is the thing; down the end of row, Oliver is giving them a look like nothing Sam's ever seen.)
"I can," she says, bossy. Then she chugs what seriously must be half the cup, moans a bit like she really needed the caffeine (or--well, not like that. Not exactly). Which, okay, Sam's seen her do that before, purr over those frothy drinks from Starbucks, but-- she doesn't even like the way he fixes his coffee.
McNally takes another long sip, smiles widely, and hands it back. "Thanks," she says, like maybe he offered, and flounces over to Nash with some noisy exclamation over last night's Vampire Diaries.
She left a print on the edge of the mug--faintly pink, the fake-fruity chapstick she uses, full outline of her lower lip.
(Sam drinks it anyway.)
*
Time and space, right?
Time and space.
*
Night after that he's getting changed in the locker room, pulls his undershirt over his head and there she is.
"Know anything about mortgages?" she asks, dropping down on the bench and sitting back on her hands. "Or, like-- realtors?" She's working a double shift tonight, McNally; Nash's kid came down with the flu. Sam willingly handed over the rest of his coffee when she got the call.
"Try the yellow pages." He fishes around in his bag for a t-shirt, honestly can't tell if she's looking because she's looking, or because she's spaced out. "Maybe Shaw, I dunno. I rent."
"Right, of course." She smirks. "No independent home-owning for you."
"Yeah, yeah." He tugs on her ponytail a bit as he leaves, impulse (McNally lets her head get dragged back with the pull, watching him over her shoulder, which-- jesus). "Try not to talk Noelle's ear off," he manages, booking it for the door.
He imagines he can feel that silky weight in his hand the whole drive home, lingering.
*
"You buying a house?" he asks her the next day on patrol, McNally sitting in the passenger seat inhaling a bag of Doritos one by one. It's been on his mind since she mentioned it: there's something absurd about the idea that he can't totally put his finger on, McNally cleaning the gutters maybe. Sam doesn't know.
"Condo," she says. "I mean, I'm thinking about it. Can't sleep on Traci's couch forever, you know?" She holds the bag out in his direction, shakes it a little; Sam demurs. "Plus, like. The market. "
"Right," he says, smirking a bit. Sam can never decide whether he wants to tell McNally to quit careening full speed into settled adulthood, or if he wants to tell her to grow up. Mostly what he wants to tell her is: relax. "The market."
"We always rented when I was a kid," she continues, crunching thoughtfully. Sam leans forward to turn the heat down and she shoves his hand out of the way, leaves a smudge of orange dust on the back of his palm. "All different places. Be nice to own something." Then, before he can comment: "You're coming to the Penny later, right?"
Sam blinks. This girl, she basically doesn't believe in conversational segues; why waste time, right McNally? "Wasn't planning on it."
"Well, you should." McNally frowns. "I mean. S'Dov's birthday, so."
So.
*
Sam's day ends late, paperwork for a court appearance he should have tied up a week ago and everyone else already cleared out. He almost just goes home. Ollie's still riding the couch (his own now, not Sam's), all no alcohol in the doghouse brother, and Jerry’s working some late night drug bust. Without them it just-- it feels oddly deliberate, going to the Penny. Sam's towelling off his hair in the darkened locker room (and he doesn't need to, is the other thing, barely moved this shift at all) and it feels like... he doesn't know.
(It's not like he would be standing her up, christ. Sam has no idea why the actual fuck he feels so responsible.)
The rookies are two pitchers in when he gets there, noisy in their usual corner. A quick scan confirms Noelle isn't here either, which: wonderful. But then McNally's up off her chair, actually greeting him at the door like this is her own private party (like she was maybe waiting for--), and just--
Deliberate. Yeah.
"You came!" she crows, like she didn't think he was going to (didn't see him an hour ago, punch him hard in the arm as she passed him at the desk).
Sam scratches a bit at the back of his neck, follows her across the bar. "Just, uh. Just for one."
Andy ignores him. "Dov's already hammered," she says quietly, dark pretty head tilted close and conspiratorial. She smells like sugar and beer. "And Gail's in this mood like somebody took a crap in her cereal bowl this morning, and now you're all caught up."
Epstein's drunk all right, and bizarrely delighted to see him: "How'd you get Swarek to show?" Sam hears the kid ask McNally as he heads over to the bar. Nash just snorts.
(Jesus Christ, the whole division knows at this point, Sam can't even--)
One turns into two; Traci takes off after that, her kid with her mom and still not feeling a hundred percent. "You coming with me?" she asks, eyebrows raised at McNally. "Or you gonna get a ride?"
Andy shrugs, all this overly casual body language. Across the table, Diaz is betting Epstein's girlfriend that she can't tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. "You can take me, right?" Andy asks, nudging Sam a bit with her knee as if the fact that he just drained half his beer trying to look like he's not waiting on her answer means she doesn't already have his full attention. "In a little while?"
"Sure," he agrees, easy. Nevermind that he hasn't, not since Callaghan and everything going weird and charged between them, anyone who cares about you. McNally nods, satisfied, turns to give Nash a look like, see? She's left her bony knee against him, warm and sharp; Sam curves his hands around his Molson so he doesn't reach for it.
(She's sitting close, is the thing, has been all night, chair pulled right up next to his. Sam can't even begin to imagine what to make of that.)
"Okay," Traci says slowly. "I'll pull out the couch for you, yeah?" Like she isn't entirely sure it's going to be necessary, like maybe Andy won't be using-- Sam takes another pull off his beer.
"Yeah, absolutely, I--" McNally picked up all right, is practically tripping over herself to backpedal. "You know, always have trouble with the latch thing, so. Thanks."
Nash gives them a look that's halfway between skeptical and amused. "Have fun," is all she says.
Sam does have fun, is the vaguely surprising thing--likes her goofy laugh and the stories she tells about being out on patrol with Ollie (likes the heat she throws off through her clothes). "What?" she asks at one point, the other rooks over in the corner playing darts ("I got winner," she hollered, brassy, then stayed planted right in her chair) and her picking at the last of a plate of nachos, cheese all hardened and congealed.
Sam shrugs. He knows she knows he likes looking at her. He gets the impression she doesn't particularly mind. "Think you missed a jalapeño."
Andy looks down at the empty platter, scowls. "Shut up." But then she's grinning again, megawatt, and Sam--Sam needs to slow his roll, basically.
They pour Epstein into the passenger seat of his girlfriend's car a bit later on, McNally trotting confidently across the chilly lot towards the truck. "Hurry up," she calls when she gets there, turning around and leaning a bit, hips forward and hands tucked deep in the pockets of her ridiculous puffy coat. Sam's real careful not to imagine putting her up against the door. "It's freezing."
He rolls his eyes to cover. "There you go, sweetheart," he says, all exaggerated-like, hitting the button to unlock. "Wouldn't want you to catch cold."
Once they're inside she makes herself at home right away, fussing with the air vents and seat warmer, jabbing at the radio presets with one bony finger. "These are terrible," she informs him, frowning. "I'm going to program ones that are better."
"Please don't," Sam says, but he lets her do it anyway; he can always change them back later (or not). They're down past the station before she decides she's satisfied.
"You ever get lonely?" she asks then-- totally, one hundred percent out of the blue. "Living by yourself?"
Sam looks over at her, sharp. The safe answer to that is 'no, not really'--the real answer, actually, there's a reason for all those UCs--but from her face it’s probably not what she wants to hear right now. Sam thinks about Montreal and Corinne and afterwards, how the new place in Toronto was always cold. The string of double shifts he worked to avoid coming home to no one. "Sometimes," he says eventually. "You?"
"I don't--" She tugs off her woollen hat, runs her hands through her staticky hair, frustrated. "I used to be good at it, you know? Being alone. I even hated sleepovers as a kid, like, too much company or something." She laughs. "But now Leo's always up to watch cartoons with me in the morning, and if I'm home in the middle of the day it's Mrs. Nash watching Dr. Phil and-- I don't know."
Her hair's still standing up, this catch and pull where it brushes against the seat. Sam resists the urge to tuck it down against her collar. "Plus," he hedges, quiet. "You were living with Callaghan."
"Ugg, no." McNally leans over to fiddle with the heat again. "I'm not doing Depression, remember? Straight on to Acceptance."
"Okay," Sam says, shifting into a turn. "So what you're telling me here is you're going to miss Dr. Phil and Roadrunner cartoons?"
"Exactly," she says. "That's exactly it."
Sam huffs a little laugh. "McNally." He's surprised by how much he wants to make her feel better (has been surprised by all kinds of shit where she's concerned for more than a year now; probably it's time he bought a clue). "It'll get easier, you know?"
"Oh, I know," she says airily. They're on Nash's street at this point; when he pulls the truck up to the curb Andy's just looking at him, hands tucked between her thighs and dark head back against the seat. "I'm telling you: Acceptance."
Sam nods, swallows a bit (and fuck, he's known plenty of pretty girls in his life, there's no reason--). "Good work."
McNally smiles. "I'm glad you came tonight," she tells him; then, over her shoulder as she hops out of the truck, this sudden blur of motion: "I'm pretty sure it was the highlight of Dov's whole evening."
(Sam takes the long way home.)
*
He's off the next day, is throwing some instant oatmeal into the shopping cart when his phone dings once inside his pocket. do u have my hat? she wants to know.
He does have her hat, as a matter of fact; found it on the seat of the truck this morning. He thought about dropping it off for her, then thought about Jo and speed dial three, then decided Jo could go screw, wherever she is. Still, the damn hat's still sitting on the dashboard.
The phone chimes again a second later, her not waiting for an answer: @ the park with leo. about to lose both my ears.
Sam stares at the text for a minute before making a decision (it's cold outside, is all, that's the god's honest truth). He fishes the oatmeal out of the cart, puts it back on the shelf. The park down the end of Nash's block?
He buys some gum and a chocolate bar on the way out, stalling. Just so he feels a little more in control, a little less jump and how high. It doesn't really work, McNally texting him twice more while he's in line, alternating between threats and profuse thanks. The cashier has a swinging ponytail. Rosati's smug laugh bounces around Sam's head as he pulls out a five dollar bill, tells the girl to keep the change.
*
He parks the car. There's no fucking reason, he could have just driven up alongside and idled, pulled away after the exchange, but-- whatever. It's technically an idle-free zone, all along the edges of the rec area, and he's a cop, so. He can stand the walk up from the lot.
(Fuck, he's an idiot over this girl.)
They're on the monkey bars when he strolls up, McNally sitting on top with her legs hooked, pulling the kid up through one of the gaps. It's grey and cold and a school day, no one else around.
"Should you have him out here when he's still sick?" Sam calls.
"Meh." Andy smiles big as she takes the hat from Sam's outstretched hand, keeps one eye on the kid as he scuttles past her across the rungs. "You're not sick anymore, are you Leo?"
Leo glances at her over his shoulder, all this dark curly hair and and Spider-Man stamped into the soles of his hightops. "No vomiting since Tuesday night," he reports seriously.
"Good man." McNally leans back for a high-five before he jumps down again. "His school has that 24-hour fever rule, though," she explains. Sam actually has no idea what the 24-hour fever rule is, but the kid looks pretty okay to him, headed full speed for the rope bridge. "Hey Leo," she calls, still smiling. "You remember Sam from that cookout over the summer when we did handstands? He was real boring and didn't get in the pool at all?"
"Funny," Sam tells her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Leo shrugs, nonplussed, and turns his attention toward the slide. McNally's changing her grip on the jungle gym, meanwhile, dropping down to actually hang by her knees like maybe she's eight years old too; she's so tall her hair brushes the cut up tires meant to cushion any tumbles.
(Sam remembers that cookout all right, Callaghan's ring just barely on her finger--still, when she slipped it off to go swimming already she had tan lines. In other places too, chlorine-faded bikini riding down her hips a little bit more than was decent. She and Leo had special-order cheeseburgers, Kraft Singles melting neon-bright. Oliver gave her hell for eating off the kids menu.)
"Look, if you aren't even going to wear it--" he starts, sweeping a boot underneath her, that long waterfall of hair. It snags against his laces for half-a-second, tugging.
McNally laughs. "Fine, Mom." She lifts herself up in a crunch, hands on the bar and this truly impressive twist-over to get herself down. It looks like she should have broken her arms, bringing her feet around like that. She jams the hat on her head as soon as she's upright. "Happy?"
Sam rolls his eyes (she's annoying, she really is: he could stand to remember that a bit more). "Wasn't my ears that were freezing off. Or did you just want to see me?"
Andy scowls at him all exaggerated-like, you held a baby?, but her cheeks go from pink to pinker in a way Sam's pretty sure has nothing to do with the cold. "If I wanted to see you, you'd know it," she announces.
Sam thinks of her fist on his door the night of the blackout, guesses there's no arguing with her there. Still: "That right?" he asks, smirking a bit.
McNally holds her ground. "Yup."
They stand there for a minute, just looking at each other, Sam with his hands in his pockets and Andy with her hands on her hips. He honestly has no idea what in the fuck it is she wants from him. Every time he thinks he knows it's like she completely changes her mind.
"Andy!" Leo yells--on the swings at this point, twisting the chain link up and then letting go so he spins (way too fast, in Sam's opinion, for a kid who just barfed on Tuesday night. It's no wonder he and McNally get along). "I need you to push me!"
"You gotta pump your legs, buddy!" she calls, but she starts across the playground anyway. She gets about halfway there before she turns around, looks at Sam like he's brain-damaged. "You coming?"
So.
He's got nothing better to do, really, is what he tells himself--there's a game on tonight, sure, but the Habs have been playing like shit lately, eighth in the damn conference. Sam doesn't think he could watch another loss, Ollie's voice in his head saying, "I've figured out Price's expression buddy, every time the puck gets near the crease: laxatives." And as for the grocery store, well--he can always order in.
(It's not a big deal. It's not.)
Still, he stands there like an ass while McNally grabs the chains on either side of Leo's hips, drags the swing back as far as she can reach and lets go, Leo's Spider Man hightops kicking in the air. "Pump, dude," she calls, but Leo's giggling too hard to hear. Sam feels out of place and obvious.
"Race me!" Leo demands.
"They're stationary swings, buddy," McNally sighs, but she's hopping onto the one beside him anyway. She pushes off with a boot on Sam's hip. "You gonna help me, or what?"
('Bout a week ago, coffee break in the Barn and Callaghan walking across the floor: "Shit, hide me." Skinny fingers in Sam's duty belt, dragging him around to face her, way too close. "Talk like it's super important."
"You're blocking the sugar," Sam said after a beat.
"Mmm." Pitching her voice up and smiling, still touching him too much. "Yes sir, absolutely.")
Sam doesn't know why he's thinking about that now.
"Am I going to help you?" he repeats, disbelieving. "You want me to push you on the swings? How old are you?"
McNally grins. "Twenty-six and a half," she fires back immediately, like it's possible she set that trap a while ago and was waiting for him to walk into it. "How old are you?"
(Twenty-six, jesus christ, Sam guesses he knew that already but it's different to actually hear it out loud; that puts her at a mid-eighties birthday, which--god, he needs to quit thinking about it.)
Sam rolls his eyes. "Too old."
"Probably," she agrees, and suddenly Sam doesn't know if they're talking about the fucking playground or what. He doesn't have a chance to figure it out, though, because Leo's stopped swinging--or is trying to, dragging his sneakers on the ground to slow himself down. "Andy," he says urgently. "I don't feel good."
Sam grabs the kid's swing immediately, helps him grind to a halt. "Gonna barf, buddy?" Leo nods miserably and does, so Sam leans him over with his head between his knees, gets him to aim for the sand.
"Crap, sorry Leo," McNally says, jumping to the ground at the top of her arc and coming around behind them. She takes off her mitten and puts her hand on Leo's tiny little-boy neck, scritches into his hair. "Your mom's going to kill me."
"We don't have to tell her," Leo gasps. He's tearing up a bit, embarrassment or the burn in his throat, Sam can't tell.
"Nah, this way you get off school for another day." She looks worried though, biting at her lip. She leans over to kiss his curly head. "You all done?" Leo nods again and McNally uses her mitten to wipe down his coat, holds her hand in front of his mouth. "Now spit." (Sam's a bit surprised, but--well. Alcoholic father. It makes sense.) Andy looks up at him. "Hey, can you bring your truck around?"
Which is how Sam winds up waiting in the upstairs hallway of Nash's house while McNally gets Leo cleaned up and into some pajamas, looking at the family photos on the walls. He was going to just drop them at the door, make sure they got inside all right, but then McNally was still on the phone with Traci when they pulled up to the curb: "Can you lift him?" she mouthed, digging the keys out of her pocket; then, covering the phone with one hand: "I mean, if not then I totally can, but--"
"I got him," Sam said, and killed the engine, the kid's small body damp and fever-warm. Andy kept a hand on his back all the way up the front walk.
"I'm an asshole," she reports now, wandering out into the hallway and shutting the door to Leo's room behind her. She looks like maybe she's not feeling so hot herself. "I mean, Traci said the park was okay if he felt up to it, but--"
"He looked up to it to me," Sam tells her, for reassurance but also because it's the truth. He rubs a bit at the back of his neck. "She on her way home?"
"She can't." Andy frowns. "It's one of those don't leave the van things."
"Ah," Sam says. There's a picture over her left shoulder, Leo just this tiny thing in footie pyjamas and Traci a teenager with red streaks in her hair. She could be his big sister.
"And her mom's visiting an aunt out in Mississauga, so." McNally scrubs her palms over her eyes. Then she looks up at him, sharp and sudden. "Oh god, you can totally leave now, by the way, I bet you've got a million things--"
"McNally." Sam sighs. Of course she'd worry about that now, when she actually needs the help. "I don't have things." (And oh for god's-- what in the actual fuck does he think he's doing? He's not her boyfriend, barely knows Nash or Leo, and McNally's big girl who already has her babysitting chops--she lives with the kid, dammit-- and just because the circles under her eyes are a little bluer than Sam would like--).
"Yeah, but you probably don't want to spend your day off, like, here." She's twisting her hair into a ponytail now, rolling up her sleeves. "Maybe Traci has some popsicles, or, I don't even know--instant soup or something. I've never believed that whole starve a fever crap. It hurts to throw up nothing, you know?" And jesus, Sam was completely right, alcoholic father-- she's got this, he knows she does, it's just...
"Andy," he says. "I can stay."
McNally exhales audibly, her whole body relaxing for half a second before she tenses up again. "Really?" she asks, and fuck, how, like--grateful she sounds, it wrecks him a little bit. Sometimes Sam wonders about McNally, why she's always so surprised when anybody wants to do her a solid. "You sure?"
Sam shrugs a little, tries to keep it casual (which--a little late for that, Officer). "I'm sure."
She gets a couple of crackers into Leo with a bit of effort, plus some ginger ale she digs out of the back of the fridge. "Aha," she says happily, holding the mostly-empty bottle up for Sam to look at like evidence at a crime scene. "I always used to buy the cans for my dad, you know, but it turns out it actually works way better flat." Then she frowns. "And, that is probably way more than you wanted to know about my childhood."
(It's not, actually. It's not more than he wants to know at all.)
Back upstairs they sit on the floor with their backs against either side of the doorjamb, McNally's legs stretched out on the racecar rug in the bedroom, Sam's ankles crossed in the hallway. Leo's in and out, this patchy sleep. "You want kids?" McNally asks suddenly.
Sam blinks for a second (conversational segues again, how McNally completely doesn't believe in them), stares at her face like maybe that'll tell him what she's after. She mostly just looks tired though, so in the end Sam opts for honestly. "I-- sometimes, yeah." It's always been in the back of his mind, in a 'someday, maybe' sort of way--has solidified into more than that a of couple times, actually, with a couple of different women--but overall... Sam doesn't know. "You?" he asks, mostly to avoid elaborating.
(Well. Also he's curious.)
McNally brings her knees up to her chin, frowning. "I guess, I mean--" She waves a hand around in front of her. "I love Leo, but. It's possible I'd suck."
He's picturing it now, what a kid of hers would look like, those big brown eyes gone dinner-plate huge in a tiny face. "You wouldn't suck," he tells her eventually.
McNally scoffs. "Please. Admit it, you think it's a miracle I manage to feed myself." Then, before Sam can even begin to work out how to answer that particular statement: "You ever come close? I mean, with kids or marriage or--?"
Oh, for god's sake. Sam leans his head back against the doorjamb; she pulled her boots off at some point, gray socks wearing through in a couple places. For a second he thinks of pulling one foot into his lap and thumbing hard at her arch, pressing. Wonders what she'd do. "Once," he says finally. "In Montreal."
That gets her attention, dark head cocked to the side. "How long were you in Montreal?"
"Seven years, about?" Sam shrugs. "Little less?"
"Really?" McNally looks genuinely surprised, like she's trying to picture it. She would have been in junior high while he was there. "How's your French?"
Sam smirks. "S'all right. Crap now, probably. But it was okay then."
"Huh." She stretches her legs out again, long thigh pressed right up against his. "So what happened?"
Sam watches their legs for a second, thinking (it's like at the Penny, all this touching he's not sure she means). She's warm as anything, even through two layers of denim. Eventually he shrugs. "It didn't work out," he tells her, grinning before he's even halfway through the sentence, her instantaneous pout.
"Ass," she says, kicking at him a little. "You know freakin' everything about my love life."
"Not voluntarily," he reminds her. She kicks again and he catches her ankle, this inch of bare skin between her sock and jeans; McNally freezes immediately. It's so sudden Sam worries he did something wrong, lets go like he's been burned.
But she doesn't look mad. "Yeah, well. Whatever." Her cheeks are pink, actually, just a bit. "Say something in French," she demands.
Sam is-- god, he's not positive, but he thinks she might be flirting with him. Or something. "Bonjour," he says carefully, dropping the accent right off so he sounds like an American tourist.
McNally scowls even harder. "Very funny," she tells him. "Come on, say something real. I won't even be able to tell if you're saying it right or not. I took Spanish." The grimace falters a little, then disappears completely as she starts to laugh. "The only French I know is the lyrics to Lady Marmalade."
Which--of course it is. Sam grins. "That right?"
Andy's still giggling. "Shut up," she mutters, then, nudging at him with her bony knee: "Come on! Do it."
Sam looks at her for another minute, her dark eyebrows up like a challenge (and even okay was probably overstating it, honestly; he could get by, sure, but even after he'd been living there for years Corinne was always the one who called to make dinner reservations. Around the house they spoke this weird hybrid language, half-and-half. He doesn't think about Corinne too often anymore but he's thinking about her now, wonders what she'd say if she could see him sitting here on the floor on his day off, babysitting a kid with the stomach flu for one reason and one reason only. Probably she'd ask him where the hell his head was at). Finally he sighs. "What do you want to hear?"
McNally grins like she knows she's won. "Something nice," she says. "I don't want to be made fun of by way of, like, some weird Quebecker expression."
Sam thinks about it for a second, still watching her, that pretty face all lit up and the mocking curve of her mouth, but... well. Lady Marmalade or not she's going to be able to recognize the word 'beautiful'. "Je n'ai aucune idée," he says instead, which is more an answer to Corinne's imagined question than anything. Then, because she asked for something nice: "Tu seras une bonne mère. Je te promets."
McNally leans her head back against the doorframe, smiling. "What's that mean?"
Sam smirks. "It means, 'Your socks have holes in them.'"
She kicks him again. "No it doesn't."
Sam puts his hand back on her ankle; higher this time, over top of the denim. "No it doesn't," he agrees.
Andy doesn't startle this time-- just lets him touch her, gaze steady on his. Sam holds very, very still.
("She want you too?" Jo asked him once, the two of them sitting in interrogation and McNally gone to get them their suspect. This was later, when her bluntness had changed from something he kind of liked about her into something he overtly didn't; Sam rolled his eyes but other than that he ignored her the way you'd ignore a playground bully, were you the type to ignore playground bullies. Sam hadn't been.
In any case: he had no fucking clue.)
Finally McNally leans forward a bit, tucks her hands underneath her like she's cold. There's half a second when he's pretty sure she's looking down at his mouth. "Can I ask you something?" she wants to know, then blatantly doesn't want for him to answer. "Did you ever--"
"Andrea?"
It's a woman's voice, coming from downstairs; McNally sits up like a prairie dog. "Mrs. Nash," she tells him, scrambling inelegantly up off the floor. "She says Andy is a boy's name."
Well, that's enough to get Sam standing too (she's always sounded like serious business, Mrs. Nash, Andy and Traci fretting over leaving make-up on the counter one morning in parade: "Take the fall for me," Andy begged. "Come on Trace, she can't kill you, you're her only daughter." She drooped like cowed puppy when Nash pointed out that the shade of cover-up would give them away.)
"Up here, Mrs. Nash," McNally calls. She looks over at Sam sort of panicked, like maybe she's considering shoving him in a linen closet or something. Suddenly this whole thing feels a lot more conspicuous. "Um. Leo's asleep and--"
"And who is this?" She looks like Traci, Sam notices, in the eyes and mouth. It's pursed now, though, nothing like Nash's quick smile.
McNally flinches nearer to him on the landing. "Sam Swarek. He's, uh. He's my riding partner." (Bad with mothers, Sam thinks. Then, immediately after he thinks about his own passing away, going on eight years now. The thoughts are connected in a way Sam doesn't care to examine too closely.)
He shakes hands with the older woman, who looks him over in a manner both obvious and unimpressed. Then she raises her eyebrows at Andy, heads past them up the stairs.
(Andrea, is the other thing. Sam knew that, he guesses, just doesn't think he's ever heard it out loud. He wonders what her middle name is, if she's got one.)
"So," he says, once it's just the two of them standing there, him with his hands shoved into his pockets and her shifting her weight from foot to stocking foot. He's uncomfortable in a real particular way he can't quite place; it takes him a second to realize it's the feeling of being fifteen and getting caught fooling around. "I should probably..."
"Yeah," McNally says quickly, bobbing her head up and down. "Totally."
Sam heads down the rest of the staircase, grabs his jacket off the back of a chair. She follows him clear out onto the porch.
He turns to look at her then, can't tell if she's got something specific to say or-- well. He curls his fingers around the railing on either side of the stairs, arms braced out wide (the porch was for kissing girls, is the thing. When Sam was fifteen--the porch was for kissing girls). He takes a breath. "Something you needed, McNally?"
"No," she pushes out, defensive, like she has no idea what he's on about. Like she maybe just followed him outside blindly (in her stocking feet and everything, christ). When Sam raises his eyebrows she buys a clue quick. "Oh, right, I was just--" She shrugs, breaks off to look at the ground. Sam watches her. (She's stupidly pretty, is something he's bumping up against more and more lately-- and the fact that he's thinking it here, her in babysitting clothes and the harsh winter light? Probably that's an indicator of something.) "Thanks for helping out," she says finally.
Sam plucks at the railing, judges the distance between his hands and her waist, her jaw. Thinks about Callaghan and the stages of grief. "Yeah, no problem," he says. The wood bites into his palms.
(She needs to be the one to do it. He told himself that after the last time, her on the edge of his bed with her arms curled around her knees and that look on her face like she thought he was going to fucking yell at her or something--that if it ever happened again. She would need to be the one to do it.)
"So," she says now--looking down, arms crossed and curling her toes into the splintered wood. He can picture real clearly how she must have been ten, twelve years ago, all teenager-gawky and those big dark eyes. "I guess I'll see you at work?"
(Twelve years ago, Sam was twenty-six and a half.)
"Yup," he tells her, arms still stretched out on either side of him. Any second he's gonna let go. "Guess so."
(It's a bunch of different shit, the way she keeps touching him and the radio stations in his truck; there's the off chance she doesn't know she's doing it, sure, but he's pretty sure that's not what it is, and just-- if she were anybody else in the entire world--)
"I'm totally gonna skip Depression," she announces suddenly. "The step, I mean. You watch, I'm going to skip it." She hasn't set her mouth in the stubborn line she normally does when she makes that pronouncement though, like maybe she means it more along the lines of a promise. Is holding her face up actually, just a bit, jaw tilted towards him like--
Like nothing. "Let me know if you need another axe," Sam says, rapping his knuckles along the wood. McNally huffs out a breath, tucks her hair behind her ears. The puff from her mouth hangs there between them in the air, white and spectral. If you want to get kissed, sweetheart--, Sam thinks, and doesn't think any further.
"I'll, uh. Keep you posted," she says finally, arms tucked around herself and this backwards shuffle across the porch, one foot then the other. Sam holds his stance.
(When her hand's on the door knob, actually turning it--that's when he lets go.)
Sam thinks about it sometimes, the first day he ever met her--that full-body tackle and him tripping over his shoelaces, McNally not hearing what he was trying to say. I'll buy my own drinks, he told her when she offered. Could be he was right all along.
He swings himself up into the truck, hits the gas harder than is maybe necessary. The radio blares sticky dance-hall pop. When he gets to the stop sign at the end of the block and glances in the rearview McNally's still standing on the porch, frozen like a statue--one foot in the house and one foot out of it, too far gone for Sam to see the look on her face.
*
(Except.)
*
Late that night, lights out in his apartment; phone buzzes once on the dresser next to the bed. Sam gropes around a bit until he finds it--he wasn't really sleeping, is restless and achy in a way that's got him wondering if he might not be coming down with something himself. She's awake too, apparently:
what do you think comes after Acceptance?
Well.
Sam stares at the screen a long time, just thinking. Scratches a bit at the back of his neck. He puts the phone down, picks it up again.
I guess we'll have to wait and find out.
Authors: lowriseflare and threeguesses
Rating: PG (I KNOW, FOR REAL, WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?)
Word Count: 6500+
Summary: The one with the... man, how did we even pitch this? The one between the sparring scene and the almost-kiss in 2x10.
AN: We legitimately just dared each other to write one without porn. IT WENT SURPRISINGLY WELL.
Three days after the quarantine, she starts drinking out of his coffee cup.
"I'm at Bargaining," she announces in parade, sidling up to him and grabbing the travel mug right out of his hands. "You were totally right, though, I was definitely stuck on Anger." She twists the top off to check the temperature, blows a bit. "I've decided to skip Depression next and move right on to Acceptance."
Sam raises his eyebrows. "You can do that?" (She totally has time to go to the coffeemaker, is the thing; down the end of row, Oliver is giving them a look like nothing Sam's ever seen.)
"I can," she says, bossy. Then she chugs what seriously must be half the cup, moans a bit like she really needed the caffeine (or--well, not like that. Not exactly). Which, okay, Sam's seen her do that before, purr over those frothy drinks from Starbucks, but-- she doesn't even like the way he fixes his coffee.
McNally takes another long sip, smiles widely, and hands it back. "Thanks," she says, like maybe he offered, and flounces over to Nash with some noisy exclamation over last night's Vampire Diaries.
She left a print on the edge of the mug--faintly pink, the fake-fruity chapstick she uses, full outline of her lower lip.
(Sam drinks it anyway.)
*
Time and space, right?
Time and space.
*
Night after that he's getting changed in the locker room, pulls his undershirt over his head and there she is.
"Know anything about mortgages?" she asks, dropping down on the bench and sitting back on her hands. "Or, like-- realtors?" She's working a double shift tonight, McNally; Nash's kid came down with the flu. Sam willingly handed over the rest of his coffee when she got the call.
"Try the yellow pages." He fishes around in his bag for a t-shirt, honestly can't tell if she's looking because she's looking, or because she's spaced out. "Maybe Shaw, I dunno. I rent."
"Right, of course." She smirks. "No independent home-owning for you."
"Yeah, yeah." He tugs on her ponytail a bit as he leaves, impulse (McNally lets her head get dragged back with the pull, watching him over her shoulder, which-- jesus). "Try not to talk Noelle's ear off," he manages, booking it for the door.
He imagines he can feel that silky weight in his hand the whole drive home, lingering.
*
"You buying a house?" he asks her the next day on patrol, McNally sitting in the passenger seat inhaling a bag of Doritos one by one. It's been on his mind since she mentioned it: there's something absurd about the idea that he can't totally put his finger on, McNally cleaning the gutters maybe. Sam doesn't know.
"Condo," she says. "I mean, I'm thinking about it. Can't sleep on Traci's couch forever, you know?" She holds the bag out in his direction, shakes it a little; Sam demurs. "Plus, like. The market. "
"Right," he says, smirking a bit. Sam can never decide whether he wants to tell McNally to quit careening full speed into settled adulthood, or if he wants to tell her to grow up. Mostly what he wants to tell her is: relax. "The market."
"We always rented when I was a kid," she continues, crunching thoughtfully. Sam leans forward to turn the heat down and she shoves his hand out of the way, leaves a smudge of orange dust on the back of his palm. "All different places. Be nice to own something." Then, before he can comment: "You're coming to the Penny later, right?"
Sam blinks. This girl, she basically doesn't believe in conversational segues; why waste time, right McNally? "Wasn't planning on it."
"Well, you should." McNally frowns. "I mean. S'Dov's birthday, so."
So.
*
Sam's day ends late, paperwork for a court appearance he should have tied up a week ago and everyone else already cleared out. He almost just goes home. Ollie's still riding the couch (his own now, not Sam's), all no alcohol in the doghouse brother, and Jerry’s working some late night drug bust. Without them it just-- it feels oddly deliberate, going to the Penny. Sam's towelling off his hair in the darkened locker room (and he doesn't need to, is the other thing, barely moved this shift at all) and it feels like... he doesn't know.
(It's not like he would be standing her up, christ. Sam has no idea why the actual fuck he feels so responsible.)
The rookies are two pitchers in when he gets there, noisy in their usual corner. A quick scan confirms Noelle isn't here either, which: wonderful. But then McNally's up off her chair, actually greeting him at the door like this is her own private party (like she was maybe waiting for--), and just--
Deliberate. Yeah.
"You came!" she crows, like she didn't think he was going to (didn't see him an hour ago, punch him hard in the arm as she passed him at the desk).
Sam scratches a bit at the back of his neck, follows her across the bar. "Just, uh. Just for one."
Andy ignores him. "Dov's already hammered," she says quietly, dark pretty head tilted close and conspiratorial. She smells like sugar and beer. "And Gail's in this mood like somebody took a crap in her cereal bowl this morning, and now you're all caught up."
Epstein's drunk all right, and bizarrely delighted to see him: "How'd you get Swarek to show?" Sam hears the kid ask McNally as he heads over to the bar. Nash just snorts.
(Jesus Christ, the whole division knows at this point, Sam can't even--)
One turns into two; Traci takes off after that, her kid with her mom and still not feeling a hundred percent. "You coming with me?" she asks, eyebrows raised at McNally. "Or you gonna get a ride?"
Andy shrugs, all this overly casual body language. Across the table, Diaz is betting Epstein's girlfriend that she can't tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. "You can take me, right?" Andy asks, nudging Sam a bit with her knee as if the fact that he just drained half his beer trying to look like he's not waiting on her answer means she doesn't already have his full attention. "In a little while?"
"Sure," he agrees, easy. Nevermind that he hasn't, not since Callaghan and everything going weird and charged between them, anyone who cares about you. McNally nods, satisfied, turns to give Nash a look like, see? She's left her bony knee against him, warm and sharp; Sam curves his hands around his Molson so he doesn't reach for it.
(She's sitting close, is the thing, has been all night, chair pulled right up next to his. Sam can't even begin to imagine what to make of that.)
"Okay," Traci says slowly. "I'll pull out the couch for you, yeah?" Like she isn't entirely sure it's going to be necessary, like maybe Andy won't be using-- Sam takes another pull off his beer.
"Yeah, absolutely, I--" McNally picked up all right, is practically tripping over herself to backpedal. "You know, always have trouble with the latch thing, so. Thanks."
Nash gives them a look that's halfway between skeptical and amused. "Have fun," is all she says.
Sam does have fun, is the vaguely surprising thing--likes her goofy laugh and the stories she tells about being out on patrol with Ollie (likes the heat she throws off through her clothes). "What?" she asks at one point, the other rooks over in the corner playing darts ("I got winner," she hollered, brassy, then stayed planted right in her chair) and her picking at the last of a plate of nachos, cheese all hardened and congealed.
Sam shrugs. He knows she knows he likes looking at her. He gets the impression she doesn't particularly mind. "Think you missed a jalapeño."
Andy looks down at the empty platter, scowls. "Shut up." But then she's grinning again, megawatt, and Sam--Sam needs to slow his roll, basically.
They pour Epstein into the passenger seat of his girlfriend's car a bit later on, McNally trotting confidently across the chilly lot towards the truck. "Hurry up," she calls when she gets there, turning around and leaning a bit, hips forward and hands tucked deep in the pockets of her ridiculous puffy coat. Sam's real careful not to imagine putting her up against the door. "It's freezing."
He rolls his eyes to cover. "There you go, sweetheart," he says, all exaggerated-like, hitting the button to unlock. "Wouldn't want you to catch cold."
Once they're inside she makes herself at home right away, fussing with the air vents and seat warmer, jabbing at the radio presets with one bony finger. "These are terrible," she informs him, frowning. "I'm going to program ones that are better."
"Please don't," Sam says, but he lets her do it anyway; he can always change them back later (or not). They're down past the station before she decides she's satisfied.
"You ever get lonely?" she asks then-- totally, one hundred percent out of the blue. "Living by yourself?"
Sam looks over at her, sharp. The safe answer to that is 'no, not really'--the real answer, actually, there's a reason for all those UCs--but from her face it’s probably not what she wants to hear right now. Sam thinks about Montreal and Corinne and afterwards, how the new place in Toronto was always cold. The string of double shifts he worked to avoid coming home to no one. "Sometimes," he says eventually. "You?"
"I don't--" She tugs off her woollen hat, runs her hands through her staticky hair, frustrated. "I used to be good at it, you know? Being alone. I even hated sleepovers as a kid, like, too much company or something." She laughs. "But now Leo's always up to watch cartoons with me in the morning, and if I'm home in the middle of the day it's Mrs. Nash watching Dr. Phil and-- I don't know."
Her hair's still standing up, this catch and pull where it brushes against the seat. Sam resists the urge to tuck it down against her collar. "Plus," he hedges, quiet. "You were living with Callaghan."
"Ugg, no." McNally leans over to fiddle with the heat again. "I'm not doing Depression, remember? Straight on to Acceptance."
"Okay," Sam says, shifting into a turn. "So what you're telling me here is you're going to miss Dr. Phil and Roadrunner cartoons?"
"Exactly," she says. "That's exactly it."
Sam huffs a little laugh. "McNally." He's surprised by how much he wants to make her feel better (has been surprised by all kinds of shit where she's concerned for more than a year now; probably it's time he bought a clue). "It'll get easier, you know?"
"Oh, I know," she says airily. They're on Nash's street at this point; when he pulls the truck up to the curb Andy's just looking at him, hands tucked between her thighs and dark head back against the seat. "I'm telling you: Acceptance."
Sam nods, swallows a bit (and fuck, he's known plenty of pretty girls in his life, there's no reason--). "Good work."
McNally smiles. "I'm glad you came tonight," she tells him; then, over her shoulder as she hops out of the truck, this sudden blur of motion: "I'm pretty sure it was the highlight of Dov's whole evening."
(Sam takes the long way home.)
*
He's off the next day, is throwing some instant oatmeal into the shopping cart when his phone dings once inside his pocket. do u have my hat? she wants to know.
He does have her hat, as a matter of fact; found it on the seat of the truck this morning. He thought about dropping it off for her, then thought about Jo and speed dial three, then decided Jo could go screw, wherever she is. Still, the damn hat's still sitting on the dashboard.
The phone chimes again a second later, her not waiting for an answer: @ the park with leo. about to lose both my ears.
Sam stares at the text for a minute before making a decision (it's cold outside, is all, that's the god's honest truth). He fishes the oatmeal out of the cart, puts it back on the shelf. The park down the end of Nash's block?
He buys some gum and a chocolate bar on the way out, stalling. Just so he feels a little more in control, a little less jump and how high. It doesn't really work, McNally texting him twice more while he's in line, alternating between threats and profuse thanks. The cashier has a swinging ponytail. Rosati's smug laugh bounces around Sam's head as he pulls out a five dollar bill, tells the girl to keep the change.
*
He parks the car. There's no fucking reason, he could have just driven up alongside and idled, pulled away after the exchange, but-- whatever. It's technically an idle-free zone, all along the edges of the rec area, and he's a cop, so. He can stand the walk up from the lot.
(Fuck, he's an idiot over this girl.)
They're on the monkey bars when he strolls up, McNally sitting on top with her legs hooked, pulling the kid up through one of the gaps. It's grey and cold and a school day, no one else around.
"Should you have him out here when he's still sick?" Sam calls.
"Meh." Andy smiles big as she takes the hat from Sam's outstretched hand, keeps one eye on the kid as he scuttles past her across the rungs. "You're not sick anymore, are you Leo?"
Leo glances at her over his shoulder, all this dark curly hair and and Spider-Man stamped into the soles of his hightops. "No vomiting since Tuesday night," he reports seriously.
"Good man." McNally leans back for a high-five before he jumps down again. "His school has that 24-hour fever rule, though," she explains. Sam actually has no idea what the 24-hour fever rule is, but the kid looks pretty okay to him, headed full speed for the rope bridge. "Hey Leo," she calls, still smiling. "You remember Sam from that cookout over the summer when we did handstands? He was real boring and didn't get in the pool at all?"
"Funny," Sam tells her, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Leo shrugs, nonplussed, and turns his attention toward the slide. McNally's changing her grip on the jungle gym, meanwhile, dropping down to actually hang by her knees like maybe she's eight years old too; she's so tall her hair brushes the cut up tires meant to cushion any tumbles.
(Sam remembers that cookout all right, Callaghan's ring just barely on her finger--still, when she slipped it off to go swimming already she had tan lines. In other places too, chlorine-faded bikini riding down her hips a little bit more than was decent. She and Leo had special-order cheeseburgers, Kraft Singles melting neon-bright. Oliver gave her hell for eating off the kids menu.)
"Look, if you aren't even going to wear it--" he starts, sweeping a boot underneath her, that long waterfall of hair. It snags against his laces for half-a-second, tugging.
McNally laughs. "Fine, Mom." She lifts herself up in a crunch, hands on the bar and this truly impressive twist-over to get herself down. It looks like she should have broken her arms, bringing her feet around like that. She jams the hat on her head as soon as she's upright. "Happy?"
Sam rolls his eyes (she's annoying, she really is: he could stand to remember that a bit more). "Wasn't my ears that were freezing off. Or did you just want to see me?"
Andy scowls at him all exaggerated-like, you held a baby?, but her cheeks go from pink to pinker in a way Sam's pretty sure has nothing to do with the cold. "If I wanted to see you, you'd know it," she announces.
Sam thinks of her fist on his door the night of the blackout, guesses there's no arguing with her there. Still: "That right?" he asks, smirking a bit.
McNally holds her ground. "Yup."
They stand there for a minute, just looking at each other, Sam with his hands in his pockets and Andy with her hands on her hips. He honestly has no idea what in the fuck it is she wants from him. Every time he thinks he knows it's like she completely changes her mind.
"Andy!" Leo yells--on the swings at this point, twisting the chain link up and then letting go so he spins (way too fast, in Sam's opinion, for a kid who just barfed on Tuesday night. It's no wonder he and McNally get along). "I need you to push me!"
"You gotta pump your legs, buddy!" she calls, but she starts across the playground anyway. She gets about halfway there before she turns around, looks at Sam like he's brain-damaged. "You coming?"
So.
He's got nothing better to do, really, is what he tells himself--there's a game on tonight, sure, but the Habs have been playing like shit lately, eighth in the damn conference. Sam doesn't think he could watch another loss, Ollie's voice in his head saying, "I've figured out Price's expression buddy, every time the puck gets near the crease: laxatives." And as for the grocery store, well--he can always order in.
(It's not a big deal. It's not.)
Still, he stands there like an ass while McNally grabs the chains on either side of Leo's hips, drags the swing back as far as she can reach and lets go, Leo's Spider Man hightops kicking in the air. "Pump, dude," she calls, but Leo's giggling too hard to hear. Sam feels out of place and obvious.
"Race me!" Leo demands.
"They're stationary swings, buddy," McNally sighs, but she's hopping onto the one beside him anyway. She pushes off with a boot on Sam's hip. "You gonna help me, or what?"
('Bout a week ago, coffee break in the Barn and Callaghan walking across the floor: "Shit, hide me." Skinny fingers in Sam's duty belt, dragging him around to face her, way too close. "Talk like it's super important."
"You're blocking the sugar," Sam said after a beat.
"Mmm." Pitching her voice up and smiling, still touching him too much. "Yes sir, absolutely.")
Sam doesn't know why he's thinking about that now.
"Am I going to help you?" he repeats, disbelieving. "You want me to push you on the swings? How old are you?"
McNally grins. "Twenty-six and a half," she fires back immediately, like it's possible she set that trap a while ago and was waiting for him to walk into it. "How old are you?"
(Twenty-six, jesus christ, Sam guesses he knew that already but it's different to actually hear it out loud; that puts her at a mid-eighties birthday, which--god, he needs to quit thinking about it.)
Sam rolls his eyes. "Too old."
"Probably," she agrees, and suddenly Sam doesn't know if they're talking about the fucking playground or what. He doesn't have a chance to figure it out, though, because Leo's stopped swinging--or is trying to, dragging his sneakers on the ground to slow himself down. "Andy," he says urgently. "I don't feel good."
Sam grabs the kid's swing immediately, helps him grind to a halt. "Gonna barf, buddy?" Leo nods miserably and does, so Sam leans him over with his head between his knees, gets him to aim for the sand.
"Crap, sorry Leo," McNally says, jumping to the ground at the top of her arc and coming around behind them. She takes off her mitten and puts her hand on Leo's tiny little-boy neck, scritches into his hair. "Your mom's going to kill me."
"We don't have to tell her," Leo gasps. He's tearing up a bit, embarrassment or the burn in his throat, Sam can't tell.
"Nah, this way you get off school for another day." She looks worried though, biting at her lip. She leans over to kiss his curly head. "You all done?" Leo nods again and McNally uses her mitten to wipe down his coat, holds her hand in front of his mouth. "Now spit." (Sam's a bit surprised, but--well. Alcoholic father. It makes sense.) Andy looks up at him. "Hey, can you bring your truck around?"
Which is how Sam winds up waiting in the upstairs hallway of Nash's house while McNally gets Leo cleaned up and into some pajamas, looking at the family photos on the walls. He was going to just drop them at the door, make sure they got inside all right, but then McNally was still on the phone with Traci when they pulled up to the curb: "Can you lift him?" she mouthed, digging the keys out of her pocket; then, covering the phone with one hand: "I mean, if not then I totally can, but--"
"I got him," Sam said, and killed the engine, the kid's small body damp and fever-warm. Andy kept a hand on his back all the way up the front walk.
"I'm an asshole," she reports now, wandering out into the hallway and shutting the door to Leo's room behind her. She looks like maybe she's not feeling so hot herself. "I mean, Traci said the park was okay if he felt up to it, but--"
"He looked up to it to me," Sam tells her, for reassurance but also because it's the truth. He rubs a bit at the back of his neck. "She on her way home?"
"She can't." Andy frowns. "It's one of those don't leave the van things."
"Ah," Sam says. There's a picture over her left shoulder, Leo just this tiny thing in footie pyjamas and Traci a teenager with red streaks in her hair. She could be his big sister.
"And her mom's visiting an aunt out in Mississauga, so." McNally scrubs her palms over her eyes. Then she looks up at him, sharp and sudden. "Oh god, you can totally leave now, by the way, I bet you've got a million things--"
"McNally." Sam sighs. Of course she'd worry about that now, when she actually needs the help. "I don't have things." (And oh for god's-- what in the actual fuck does he think he's doing? He's not her boyfriend, barely knows Nash or Leo, and McNally's big girl who already has her babysitting chops--she lives with the kid, dammit-- and just because the circles under her eyes are a little bluer than Sam would like--).
"Yeah, but you probably don't want to spend your day off, like, here." She's twisting her hair into a ponytail now, rolling up her sleeves. "Maybe Traci has some popsicles, or, I don't even know--instant soup or something. I've never believed that whole starve a fever crap. It hurts to throw up nothing, you know?" And jesus, Sam was completely right, alcoholic father-- she's got this, he knows she does, it's just...
"Andy," he says. "I can stay."
McNally exhales audibly, her whole body relaxing for half a second before she tenses up again. "Really?" she asks, and fuck, how, like--grateful she sounds, it wrecks him a little bit. Sometimes Sam wonders about McNally, why she's always so surprised when anybody wants to do her a solid. "You sure?"
Sam shrugs a little, tries to keep it casual (which--a little late for that, Officer). "I'm sure."
She gets a couple of crackers into Leo with a bit of effort, plus some ginger ale she digs out of the back of the fridge. "Aha," she says happily, holding the mostly-empty bottle up for Sam to look at like evidence at a crime scene. "I always used to buy the cans for my dad, you know, but it turns out it actually works way better flat." Then she frowns. "And, that is probably way more than you wanted to know about my childhood."
(It's not, actually. It's not more than he wants to know at all.)
Back upstairs they sit on the floor with their backs against either side of the doorjamb, McNally's legs stretched out on the racecar rug in the bedroom, Sam's ankles crossed in the hallway. Leo's in and out, this patchy sleep. "You want kids?" McNally asks suddenly.
Sam blinks for a second (conversational segues again, how McNally completely doesn't believe in them), stares at her face like maybe that'll tell him what she's after. She mostly just looks tired though, so in the end Sam opts for honestly. "I-- sometimes, yeah." It's always been in the back of his mind, in a 'someday, maybe' sort of way--has solidified into more than that a of couple times, actually, with a couple of different women--but overall... Sam doesn't know. "You?" he asks, mostly to avoid elaborating.
(Well. Also he's curious.)
McNally brings her knees up to her chin, frowning. "I guess, I mean--" She waves a hand around in front of her. "I love Leo, but. It's possible I'd suck."
He's picturing it now, what a kid of hers would look like, those big brown eyes gone dinner-plate huge in a tiny face. "You wouldn't suck," he tells her eventually.
McNally scoffs. "Please. Admit it, you think it's a miracle I manage to feed myself." Then, before Sam can even begin to work out how to answer that particular statement: "You ever come close? I mean, with kids or marriage or--?"
Oh, for god's sake. Sam leans his head back against the doorjamb; she pulled her boots off at some point, gray socks wearing through in a couple places. For a second he thinks of pulling one foot into his lap and thumbing hard at her arch, pressing. Wonders what she'd do. "Once," he says finally. "In Montreal."
That gets her attention, dark head cocked to the side. "How long were you in Montreal?"
"Seven years, about?" Sam shrugs. "Little less?"
"Really?" McNally looks genuinely surprised, like she's trying to picture it. She would have been in junior high while he was there. "How's your French?"
Sam smirks. "S'all right. Crap now, probably. But it was okay then."
"Huh." She stretches her legs out again, long thigh pressed right up against his. "So what happened?"
Sam watches their legs for a second, thinking (it's like at the Penny, all this touching he's not sure she means). She's warm as anything, even through two layers of denim. Eventually he shrugs. "It didn't work out," he tells her, grinning before he's even halfway through the sentence, her instantaneous pout.
"Ass," she says, kicking at him a little. "You know freakin' everything about my love life."
"Not voluntarily," he reminds her. She kicks again and he catches her ankle, this inch of bare skin between her sock and jeans; McNally freezes immediately. It's so sudden Sam worries he did something wrong, lets go like he's been burned.
But she doesn't look mad. "Yeah, well. Whatever." Her cheeks are pink, actually, just a bit. "Say something in French," she demands.
Sam is-- god, he's not positive, but he thinks she might be flirting with him. Or something. "Bonjour," he says carefully, dropping the accent right off so he sounds like an American tourist.
McNally scowls even harder. "Very funny," she tells him. "Come on, say something real. I won't even be able to tell if you're saying it right or not. I took Spanish." The grimace falters a little, then disappears completely as she starts to laugh. "The only French I know is the lyrics to Lady Marmalade."
Which--of course it is. Sam grins. "That right?"
Andy's still giggling. "Shut up," she mutters, then, nudging at him with her bony knee: "Come on! Do it."
Sam looks at her for another minute, her dark eyebrows up like a challenge (and even okay was probably overstating it, honestly; he could get by, sure, but even after he'd been living there for years Corinne was always the one who called to make dinner reservations. Around the house they spoke this weird hybrid language, half-and-half. He doesn't think about Corinne too often anymore but he's thinking about her now, wonders what she'd say if she could see him sitting here on the floor on his day off, babysitting a kid with the stomach flu for one reason and one reason only. Probably she'd ask him where the hell his head was at). Finally he sighs. "What do you want to hear?"
McNally grins like she knows she's won. "Something nice," she says. "I don't want to be made fun of by way of, like, some weird Quebecker expression."
Sam thinks about it for a second, still watching her, that pretty face all lit up and the mocking curve of her mouth, but... well. Lady Marmalade or not she's going to be able to recognize the word 'beautiful'. "Je n'ai aucune idée," he says instead, which is more an answer to Corinne's imagined question than anything. Then, because she asked for something nice: "Tu seras une bonne mère. Je te promets."
McNally leans her head back against the doorframe, smiling. "What's that mean?"
Sam smirks. "It means, 'Your socks have holes in them.'"
She kicks him again. "No it doesn't."
Sam puts his hand back on her ankle; higher this time, over top of the denim. "No it doesn't," he agrees.
Andy doesn't startle this time-- just lets him touch her, gaze steady on his. Sam holds very, very still.
("She want you too?" Jo asked him once, the two of them sitting in interrogation and McNally gone to get them their suspect. This was later, when her bluntness had changed from something he kind of liked about her into something he overtly didn't; Sam rolled his eyes but other than that he ignored her the way you'd ignore a playground bully, were you the type to ignore playground bullies. Sam hadn't been.
In any case: he had no fucking clue.)
Finally McNally leans forward a bit, tucks her hands underneath her like she's cold. There's half a second when he's pretty sure she's looking down at his mouth. "Can I ask you something?" she wants to know, then blatantly doesn't want for him to answer. "Did you ever--"
"Andrea?"
It's a woman's voice, coming from downstairs; McNally sits up like a prairie dog. "Mrs. Nash," she tells him, scrambling inelegantly up off the floor. "She says Andy is a boy's name."
Well, that's enough to get Sam standing too (she's always sounded like serious business, Mrs. Nash, Andy and Traci fretting over leaving make-up on the counter one morning in parade: "Take the fall for me," Andy begged. "Come on Trace, she can't kill you, you're her only daughter." She drooped like cowed puppy when Nash pointed out that the shade of cover-up would give them away.)
"Up here, Mrs. Nash," McNally calls. She looks over at Sam sort of panicked, like maybe she's considering shoving him in a linen closet or something. Suddenly this whole thing feels a lot more conspicuous. "Um. Leo's asleep and--"
"And who is this?" She looks like Traci, Sam notices, in the eyes and mouth. It's pursed now, though, nothing like Nash's quick smile.
McNally flinches nearer to him on the landing. "Sam Swarek. He's, uh. He's my riding partner." (Bad with mothers, Sam thinks. Then, immediately after he thinks about his own passing away, going on eight years now. The thoughts are connected in a way Sam doesn't care to examine too closely.)
He shakes hands with the older woman, who looks him over in a manner both obvious and unimpressed. Then she raises her eyebrows at Andy, heads past them up the stairs.
(Andrea, is the other thing. Sam knew that, he guesses, just doesn't think he's ever heard it out loud. He wonders what her middle name is, if she's got one.)
"So," he says, once it's just the two of them standing there, him with his hands shoved into his pockets and her shifting her weight from foot to stocking foot. He's uncomfortable in a real particular way he can't quite place; it takes him a second to realize it's the feeling of being fifteen and getting caught fooling around. "I should probably..."
"Yeah," McNally says quickly, bobbing her head up and down. "Totally."
Sam heads down the rest of the staircase, grabs his jacket off the back of a chair. She follows him clear out onto the porch.
He turns to look at her then, can't tell if she's got something specific to say or-- well. He curls his fingers around the railing on either side of the stairs, arms braced out wide (the porch was for kissing girls, is the thing. When Sam was fifteen--the porch was for kissing girls). He takes a breath. "Something you needed, McNally?"
"No," she pushes out, defensive, like she has no idea what he's on about. Like she maybe just followed him outside blindly (in her stocking feet and everything, christ). When Sam raises his eyebrows she buys a clue quick. "Oh, right, I was just--" She shrugs, breaks off to look at the ground. Sam watches her. (She's stupidly pretty, is something he's bumping up against more and more lately-- and the fact that he's thinking it here, her in babysitting clothes and the harsh winter light? Probably that's an indicator of something.) "Thanks for helping out," she says finally.
Sam plucks at the railing, judges the distance between his hands and her waist, her jaw. Thinks about Callaghan and the stages of grief. "Yeah, no problem," he says. The wood bites into his palms.
(She needs to be the one to do it. He told himself that after the last time, her on the edge of his bed with her arms curled around her knees and that look on her face like she thought he was going to fucking yell at her or something--that if it ever happened again. She would need to be the one to do it.)
"So," she says now--looking down, arms crossed and curling her toes into the splintered wood. He can picture real clearly how she must have been ten, twelve years ago, all teenager-gawky and those big dark eyes. "I guess I'll see you at work?"
(Twelve years ago, Sam was twenty-six and a half.)
"Yup," he tells her, arms still stretched out on either side of him. Any second he's gonna let go. "Guess so."
(It's a bunch of different shit, the way she keeps touching him and the radio stations in his truck; there's the off chance she doesn't know she's doing it, sure, but he's pretty sure that's not what it is, and just-- if she were anybody else in the entire world--)
"I'm totally gonna skip Depression," she announces suddenly. "The step, I mean. You watch, I'm going to skip it." She hasn't set her mouth in the stubborn line she normally does when she makes that pronouncement though, like maybe she means it more along the lines of a promise. Is holding her face up actually, just a bit, jaw tilted towards him like--
Like nothing. "Let me know if you need another axe," Sam says, rapping his knuckles along the wood. McNally huffs out a breath, tucks her hair behind her ears. The puff from her mouth hangs there between them in the air, white and spectral. If you want to get kissed, sweetheart--, Sam thinks, and doesn't think any further.
"I'll, uh. Keep you posted," she says finally, arms tucked around herself and this backwards shuffle across the porch, one foot then the other. Sam holds his stance.
(When her hand's on the door knob, actually turning it--that's when he lets go.)
Sam thinks about it sometimes, the first day he ever met her--that full-body tackle and him tripping over his shoelaces, McNally not hearing what he was trying to say. I'll buy my own drinks, he told her when she offered. Could be he was right all along.
He swings himself up into the truck, hits the gas harder than is maybe necessary. The radio blares sticky dance-hall pop. When he gets to the stop sign at the end of the block and glances in the rearview McNally's still standing on the porch, frozen like a statue--one foot in the house and one foot out of it, too far gone for Sam to see the look on her face.
*
(Except.)
*
Late that night, lights out in his apartment; phone buzzes once on the dresser next to the bed. Sam gropes around a bit until he finds it--he wasn't really sleeping, is restless and achy in a way that's got him wondering if he might not be coming down with something himself. She's awake too, apparently:
what do you think comes after Acceptance?
Well.
Sam stares at the screen a long time, just thinking. Scratches a bit at the back of his neck. He puts the phone down, picks it up again.
I guess we'll have to wait and find out.