fic: a whole house on fire if you'd let it (Rookie Blue, Sam/Andy)
Title: a whole house on fire if you’d let it
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 7131
Summary: The one at the Penny.
Their first shift back after suspension, she literally won’t look at him all day.
Which--fine. That's fine. She's probably right, and anyway it's not like twelve hours is the longest he's gone since they started doing...whatever it is they're doing. She rides with Diaz. He rides with Peck. He runs into her in booking around lunchtime (runs into her literally; she’s not watching where she’s going, muscling some pimply-faced suspect down the hall): “McNally,” he says, totally professional. Andy mumbles something unintelligible in return.
Okay, sweetheart. Okay.
Only then they hit up the Penny afterwards (also fine, they haven't really seen anyone in a while, Sam gets it) and she’s still pulling this weird distance shit, like he didn't have her all sleepy-headed on his counter this morning, in between bites of cereal because "Sam, we have to be fast", and just-- it's possible he is slightly annoyed.
Which makes him feel like an asshole, frankly: Sam's dated a reasonable number of women, and he's never, ever been that guy. (There's a lot of guys he's never been until recently, to be honest. Sam's still working out what he thinks about that.) He just...had her to himself for three weeks, he guesses, some kind of impromptu crash course: Andy-McNally's-Guide-to-Sex-and-Jury-Rigged-Domesticity, levels one through four. That kind of thing's not built to last.
("Are you worried?" she asked him last night, propped up on her elbow and one idle finger tracing shapes across his chest. "That we've been in like, this bubble this whole time and now..." Andy shrugged.
Sam smirked a little, pushed her hair behind her ear so he could see her. "I'm definitely worried," he said seriously. "Once I'm around Ollie all the time again I just don't think I'm going to find you as attractive anymore."
Andy laughed once, cackling and bright. "I'll show you attractive," she promised, pouncing. They didn't talk about it again after that.)
He scratches the back of his neck a bit, glances across the bar until he sees her: she's arm-wrestling Epstein, Nash playing the ref. Sam rolls his eyes and orders another beer. After a minute Oliver joins him, tipping the neck of his Molson in what could either be a gesture of solidarity or a "brother, what are you doing with your life?" (Before parade, he corned Sam in the locker rooms and just said "seriously?" with varying inflections until Sam asked if Zoe was maybe watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy lately.)
"So." Ollie raises his eyebrows. "Back on the jo-ob. Back at the old one-five."
Somewhere to their left, Andy whoops in victory, Epstein accusing Nash of reverse sexism. Sam deliberately doesn't look. "Got something to say, brother?"
Oliver spreads out his fingers. "Nothing at all." He claps Sam on the shoulder. "Glad to have your overly-suspicious ass back." Then he’s turning around on his stool, hands cupped beside his mouth like a megaphone. "McNally! It's not nice to antagonize the children; come over here for some real action."
And just like that Andy's worming her way between them, grinning and bouncing and smelling like sugar (this cheap roller-ball perfume she wears; Sam's seen it twice now, little flowers across the front, ages four-and-up). "’K, but when you get beat, just remember you asked for it."
"Keep talking, Rookie." Ollie puts his beer down, rolls up his cuffs. "You want winner, Sammy-boy?"
And oh, that's very cute, the shit-eating grin and everything. Sam rolls his eyes. "Tempting, but. I, ah, think I'll pass."
"He's afraid," McNally puts in. She's being loud--that over the top, one of the guys bravado thing she does when she's uncomfortable. Nash and Epstein have followed to watch. "Thinks I'll humiliate him after I wipe the floor with you."
(Which, A: he's wrestled her more than once now and no, that's not what he's afraid of, thanks, and B: just--no. There is absolutely no way he's going to--in front of--too cool or not, Sam's got limits.
Still, though: there's really no reason for him to feel as irritated as he does.)
"You got me," he tells her dryly, stepping back so Nash can count them off. "That's what it is."
McNally scowls at him, puts her elbow on the bar.
And wins.
(It's possible Ollie throws it, but, uh. Sam's actually not totally sure.)
So then, of course, he's sort of stuck. "You can't let that go, sir," Epstein says, two-beer flush and an honest-to-god sweater vest. "It's an affront to, like--masculinity!"
Sam looks pointedly at the argyle. "Not to mine." But Nash is grinning and McNally's got her eyebrows raised, sharp chin out like a challenge (it's an expression he used to associate with headaches and protocol violation paperwork, Sam let's just check out this one thing, but after these past three weeks it has, uh. Some different meanings). Sam rubs a hand over his eyes, wishes he could just send them all out to recess or something.
"All right, McNally." (And seriously, he legitimately almost calls her sweetheart, where the fuck is his head?) "Let's go."
McNally smiles big and goofy like she's already beat him, makes a big show of limbering up. Sam drains half his beer in two long gulps. "Enough," he says (she's standing there cracking her knuckles like there's noplace in the world she'd rather be than in this bar arm wrestling of all fucking things, and jesus if he's going to do this he wants to do it already and be done). "Come on."
She shakes one more time like a Labrador, gets her bony elbow on the ledge. He hasn't been this close to her all day. At the house she was real physical, jumping on his back while he made dinner (which he was expecting), stroking gently along the lines in the palm of his busted hand (which he, uh. Sort of wasn't). She's wearing a white cotton t-shirt, the kind that come three in a pack for ten dollars, deep V gapping open a bit at the neck. Sam doesn't look.
"Unlike my buddy Officer Shaw," he tells her quietly as Nash counts to three, "I'm not gonna let you win."
McNally only pfffts.
(She, uh. Puts up a pretty decent fight, all told.)
By the time he finally gets her hand down to the bar--slippery with beer spills and condensation, maybe the worst arm wrestling venue ever, seriously--he can feel the tension singing in his shoulder, how he's breathing a little harder. Nash counts them out, boxing style, like maybe McNally's got five seconds to get her knuckles up off the mat (which: okay, Epstein's whining has slightly more validity now) but Andy just lets him hold her there, smiling a bit. She's gone all glowy, these grooves in her bottom lip where she was biting it (and like, Sam has wrestled her before, alright, in very specific circumstances, and just-- it's possible his body is having trouble remembering this is not one of them).
"You're out, Andy," Nash calls finally. Sam lets go of her hand like it's burning him.
Oliver claps him on the back, all smiles. "Better man than me, Sammy." Sam rolls his eyes, takes a long pull of his beer (which he, uh. suddenly needs). Ollie turns his attention to the rookies. "There you are, Epstein, we won the battle of the sexes. Go tell of the good news on high." And the kid actually goes, is the thing, trotting off towards Diaz, grinning like a loon.
"Thanks for that," McNally groans. She's falling into him a bit now; less of an audience maybe, that or she's finally decided they aren't thirteen. "This time tomorrow, the story'll be that he beat me himself."
"Yeah, well." Sam grins a little (he likes her like this, flushed and just this side of sweaty: one morning last week she came in from a run and he got her up against the wall of the foyer before she even took her jacket off, leggings around her knees and his mouth at the warm salty skin on the inside of her thigh. "You're gross," she muttered, head thudding back against the plaster, but she also definitely didn't tell him to cut it out, so). "You asked for it."
McNally's eyes widen, shifting her weight back and glancing over at Oliver right away like Sam just came out with some filthy double entendre, which--Ollie's not even paying attention, first of all; his phone's ringing inside his pocket, a ridiculous jaunty little tune ("Hi, darlin'," he says as he wanders away to answer it, so Sam guesses he must be out of the doghouse). Second of all, she literally did ask for it, and honestly Sam's had pretty much all the middle-school inanity he can handle for one day.
"Relax, McNally," he tells her quietly, and even at a murmur he can't totally keep the exasperation out of his voice. "I don't think any of the other kids heard."
Which--fuck, she does not like that one bit.
He hasn't had her mad at him much yet, ridiculous arguments about takeout orders aside (we've been in this bubble--yeah), and suddenly it feels just like old times: that insolent slash of her mouth, the way he feels like they're speaking different languages. "I'm just trying to be, like. Professional." She's honest-to-god whispering. There's no one within five feet.
Which--Sam knows what she's trying to do, is the thing, he got it two hours ago at the 15th, was on board even, but now he's just-- "Professional. At the Penny." Three tables down, Diaz is chugging a beer, some sort of lost bet.
McNally shrugs almost violently. Leaves her shoulders up, back bristled and fur standing on end. "It's a cop bar."
"A cop bar." This girl, Sam swears. "So basically I can't talk to you at any work-affiliated places, is that it? Is Tim Hortons is out too? Because god knows there's always a couple of uniforms in there. Hell--" He throws up his arms. "We might as well never leave the house in case someone, I don't know, sees us holding hands or something."
"And here I thought only J.D. was the hand-holding type," Andy says nastily. Face screwed up, twenty different kinds of bratty--jesus christ, it's like arguing with a seven year old.
"What do you want, McNally?" Sam scowls. There's a what the hell is wrong with you tone he gets sometimes that he knows hurts her feelings, one he tries not to use anymore since he figured out that's what it does. It's creeping in now, though, and he doesn't--he's tired, or something. It's been a long day. "You want me to go fuck myself until you decide you're ready to be buddies again? Cause I'm not gonna do that with you."
There's a joke there, clearly, but it's like she's not even listening to a word he said; she's fidgeting, snorting like a wild horse. "Jesus, Sam," she hisses, totally agitated. "Can you keep your damn voice down?"
Can he keep his--seriously? Kings of fucking Leon are blaring away on the jukebox and Peck's back there cackling louder than a murder of crows but McNally's worried--and she is, jesus, she's looking over his shoulder right now, like--
like she's a pain in the ass, is what, but she's also--she is freaked out. Sam's heart does a weird thing inside his chest.
(She cried again, and hard, three nights into it; Sam woke up and found her curled on the couch in his living room, watching reruns in the dark. "Couldn't sleep," she told him, calm as anything, and after that she burst into tears.)
"McNally," he says, more quietly this time. She leans in a little bit to hear. "Nobody is watching."
And alright, that one actually seems to register: Andy blinks like she's thinking about it, looks around for confirmation. Nash and Jerry are the closest, not evening facing them; on top of the bar, Nash has one finger resting against Jerry's wrist. Some of the fight leaves Andy's shoulders. "Okay, fine, but--" She makes face, gesturing helplessly.
But. Sam sighs. (What he'd really like to do is get his arms around her, hold on until she quiets. Take this somewhere she's less likely to spook.) He tries again: "Andy, sweetheart--" and he's whispering now; she doesn't even startle at the nickname. "Everybody already knows."
(They really do, jesus, Oliver and Nash and probably Jerry; Best, who asked and Sam didn't lie to. Even Peck's made a few comments.)
McNally makes another face, like she doesn't like thinking about it. "But--"
God. Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "Andy. What are you scared of?"
"What?" Just like that she's back to defensive, that arrogant thrust of her jaw. "I'm not scared of anything," she says snottily (which, nice try, but bullshit: it's either whatever she's feeling or whatever he is, Sam's pretty sure, although he honestly could not tell you which one if his life depended on it). "I'm just--I'm just--" She's just half a second from stomping her foot, is what it looks like, but in the end she only grabs his beer out of his hand and takes a long gulp. "I gotta pee," she says suddenly, once she's swallowed--
and bolts.
Of course she does.
Sam breathes out through his nose and kills the beer, debating. He's not gonna follow her. That's exactly what she thinks he'll do, probably, this ninth grade crap, fighting in the cafeteria during free period--
fuck.
He slams the bottle down and goes.
The Penny was built way back, old brick and shitty renos on top of shitty renos, seven different layers of paint on the bar. The ladies’ room is an afterthought, tacked-on in a dingy corner, 1980s yellow and out of place. Like maybe the owner woke up one day and watched Working Girl, realized women could be cops.
Sam cools his heels outside for a minute, considers how dumb he wants to be tonight.
(Answer: dumb.)
No one's inside but her, thank god--he'd recognize those boots anywhere. (There are only two stalls, stupidly; the architect clearly didn't understand women. They're forever flitting into the men's, this batch of rookies--Noelle too, although she knocks. Three weeks after Sam landed his ass back in uniform, McNally banged open the door while he was at the urinal, noisy and yelling over her shoulder. Both of them froze. Then she grinned, sly like she’d maybe been looking, and disappeared into a stall. And if Sam hadn't already been fond of her then--
well.)
"McNally." There's no way he's having this conversation through a door.
"I'm peeing," she announces, which she definitely isn't. Her jeans aren't even down. "God."
Sam rolls his eyes. "So pee."
"What are you, gonna stand there and listen to me like some kind of pervert?"
Like some kind of-- "Call the cops, sweetheart." Sam hooks his fingers over the top of the door and rattles gently, rests his forehead on his wrist. "McNally," he says again. "Open up."
After a moment the lock turns and there she is, this look on her face like she can't decide if she's embarrassed or pissed. "This is the ladies’ room, Sam."
"Shit," he says. "You're kidding."
Andy sticks her tongue out and makes a move to come out of the stall but Sam blocks the doorway, backs her up a couple of steps. "What are you doing?" she asks shrilly. "Move."
And Sam--Sam is not totally sure, to tell you the truth. He gets two fingers in her belt loops, nudges her back against the dingy tile wall. She's throwing a lot of heat through her t-shirt. "What," he repeats, right in her ear this time, "are you scared of?"
"Wha--I just told you I'm not--" Andy huffs noisily, shoves a little at his chest. "You!"
Sam sighs, knocks his forehead against hers lightly. "Me." And yeah, okay, he kind of figured, but just-- "What are you, worried I'm going to play grab-ass on shift?"
"Sam." She's shaking her head, like she either wants to take it back or bolt, Sam can't tell. "Can't we just, like. Talk about this at home?"
Which--
Okay, A: no, no way, the second he lets her out that door it'll be darts with Epstein or some shit, that bravado crap she pulls--everything's fine, nothing to see here. They'll never have this conversation again basically, is what Sam's saying. And as for B, well: "talk about this at home". Just--yeah. (Sam wasn't kidding about the crash course in domesticity, she's been back to hers maybe twice, a toothbrush and her own pair of his sweats--but home, fuck, he can't even.)
McNally's looking at him steady, doesn't even know what she said. Sam grins against her temple.
(Not running that scared, then.)
"Uh-uh, sweetheart." He tugs at her belt loops again, pulls her into him and then shifts his weight forward, knocking her hips against the tile wall. "We're doing this now."
Andy scowls at him like she's irritated, but she doesn't try to move. "I don't know," she says, fiddling with one of the buttons on his thermal. He can hear the Killers through the thin walls of the bathroom, restless hearts and loaded guns. "You don't feel like we skipped steps?"
"McNally--" Sam shrugs, settles for honesty. "I feel like we probably skipped a lot of steps, yeah."
She blinks at that, like she was expecting an argument. "So?"
"So, what?" He keeps his fingers in her belt loops. He's not letting go unless she says. "You wanna hit the brakes?"
"No," she says right away (and Sam just--okay. Okay. He tries not to relax too visibly), then squeezes her eyes shut like maybe she's embarrassed it came out like that. "I, like. Kind of don't?"
Sam nods slowly. "All right--?"
"But I should want to hit the brakes, is the point. I always want to hit the brakes. I don't even like to sleep over at people's--I mean, with Luke I didn't--" McNally breaks off abruptly, like maybe it just occurred to her that that's possibly not a useful example. "It's weird, is all I'm trying to tell you here. It is weird."
"Huh." McNally's weird can mean a whole lot of things: their twitchy informant down on Sherbourne is weird, wholewheat pancakes are weird, Peck's face when she's singing is "I don't even--Sam, you had to be there". (That one time against the door, all sweaty from her run; that other time, two days before the end of her period-- both were "seriously, Sam" and nervous body language everywhere, McNally shrugging and fussing with her hair afterwards, hands in her proverbial pockets: "So, um." Weird, sure, okay, but: she never told him to stop.)
Sam breathes out, something deep in his chest going loose then looser. "So. Let me get this straight: you're freaking out about not wanting to--?"
Andy rolls her eyes, plants a hand on his chest like she's getting ready to push. "Ugg, no, you know what, whatever, just--" She smooths over his shoulder, makes a face. "Basically, yes. Pretty much."
That's dumb, Sam doesn't say, because you can't tell women that. (And also because it's not, actually; it's maybe the best thing he's heard out of her all day. And god, it's stupid, it's completely stupid how happy he--) "Most people would consider that a good thing." He's smiling now, just a bit. McNally smells like candyfloss, something sweet and out of season. She doesn't want to hit the brakes.
"Yeah, well. I'm not most people," she says (and that--that is a fact, certainly). She grins at him a little, like she's pleased. "God, I can't believe you followed me into the bathroom."
Which--sure, McNally, absolutely. Sam smirks. "Yes you can."
Andy wrinkles her nose, picks a bit at the seam on his shoulder. (She's full of these little twitches, McNally: braiding the fringe on throw blankets, folding magazine reply cards into paper airplanes while they watch TV. She physically cannot have a beer bottle in front of her without peeling the label off and shredding it to soggy gray bits.) "I guess." She widens her stance a little, deepens her voice. "No rule book, and all."
Sam snorts. "Is that me?" He pushes his chest into hers just the slightest bit, gentle, until her back hits up against the wall. He's still got his fingers at her hips. "That was very nice."
"Thank you," she tells him, and yeah, it's a full-on grin now. She tilts her chin up in that way she does when she wants to get kissed but doesn't want to be responsible for doing the kissing, expectant.
(Sam takes the bait every time.)
For the first few seconds he just gets the edge of her smile, glancing. But then she's closing her eyes, leaning her head back against the title, and it's not so much bait as blatant invitation (she doesn't really do coy, McNally; her own brand of inelegant demands works on Sam at least twice as well). Sam kisses his way into her mouth until he can tell what she ate for lunch, kisses a little further until he's got her hips coming up off the wall. Andy makes a noise in her throat, satisfied, and god it's-- she gets this low-grade hum sometimes, one that's really more of purr (is not, Sam, shut up) whenever he feeds her good coffee, messes with her hair. (And that's another thing he never--she loves having her hair touched, will literally shove her head back into his palm if he even thinks about stopping.
Sam, uh. Doesn't mind so much.)
Normally it's relaxing, quiet time or whatever, but when she's making it right up against his mouth like that--
"Okay, so." Andy pulls back with a smack; leans in to peck him again, quick and bossy. "We're, like. Good then?"
As if Sam was ever the one who wasn't. "Yeah, sure McNally. I'll carry your books to first period."
She sticks out her tongue, which normally would have Sam rolling his eyes, but right now... She's ridiculous, is the thing, leaning back against the lockers and smacking her gum nervously, checking to see if he'll look (and he did, god, followed her right into the fucking bathroom) and Sam just--well.
He kisses her again, biting a bit. Just a little, just her lower lip. The edges of her tongue.
McNally whimpers.
And that--that is pretty much all Sam needs to hear. (It's possible he missed her today, is the thing, her smell and the casual press of her body, her fingers scritching absently at the back of his neck while he drives). His hands slide down to palm her ass, rubbing at the curve of it. Kneads a little through her jeans. McNally bites back: his bottom lip between her teeth and tugging him closer, two warm hands cupping his skull.
(And god, places Sam's fooled around lately where he probably wouldn't even have fooled around in high school: the emergency exit staircase of the movie theater halfway through that Brad Pitt thing she wanted to see so much and anyway movies are normal; the parking lot of a Best Buy in broad daylight.
Here, apparently.)
Sam pulls back enough to get his hands in between them, palms up her rib cage, skating over her breasts until they tighten up through her shirt. (Sports bra's back in rotation today, for work he guesses; the last few weeks he's gotten pretty familiar with the Andy McNally underwear catalogue, although mostly she just went without). He thumbs at her nipples a little, pinches how she likes. Andy gasps.
"Okay," she says, sort of breathless, her cheeks gone pink and flushed. "Okay, we need to--"
"Yup," Sam agrees seriously, and does it again. He's not going for anything serious, really, just wants his hands on her for a bit, reestablish the fucking pair bond or whatever, they can go out and play darts afterwards--but then Andy whines, hips coming up off the wall again, and--
And.
It's a specific sort of move, is the thing: this shallow begging arch and her thighs falling open just a little, the press of her zipper. It means she's feeling it, badly; it means touch me. When he does, 96 percent of the time she's already--she is worked up.
(God, she is 96 percent of the time anyway; Sam, seriously, she complained to him once, I just showered. It took him a few minutes to understand what she meant, neither of them even breathing heavy, sprawled out on the couch watching SNL.
Like, she muttered, this look on her face, you're going to get me all-- and Sam, well. He'd only been kissing her neck.
So then, of course, he had to check.
She was right.)
He hitches her closer, one hand sliding back down to her ass, palming her jeans pocket. She shifts a thigh until she's hugging his, hips stuttering like she wants to grind but isn't letting herself. "Sam." Oh, and she's urgent now, that edge creeping into her voice. "Let's--we should get out of here."
Probably, yeah. Sam presses up with his thigh, does the grinding for her (and okay, that's--by now, no way is she not--). "In a sec."
"Sam." It's half a laugh and half a groan, her face falling forward against his shoulder. Her hips are starting to work, though; she's up on her toes for leverage, fingertips sliding down into his collar. Sam smiles into her hair. (And he knows they're pushing their luck at this point; somebody's gonna walk in here any second and then she'll really have something to freak out about, will be out the door so fast it'll be a miracle if she doesn't transfer to another division. Sam knows that.
He wants to get her off, though.)
"Okay, okay." He slides his hands underneath her t-shirt, his mouth at the salty skin of her neck. "Go."
Andy growls. "That's not fair," she says petulantly, tips her head back to give him room. She pushes herself against his thigh one more time, hard, and even through two layers of denim he can feel how warm she is. "You're not being--jesus, Sam."
"McNally," he says, reaching down and popping the button on her jeans, slipping his fingers down into her panties (polka dots today, he thinks, it's hard to tell from this angle and god, this is stupid, this is already the stupidest he's been since the cover apartment). "I'm saying. Go ahead."
"Mean, you are so--" Andy's head thunks back against the wall, eyes screwed shut like maybe if she closes them hard enough they'll magically be transported somewhere else. Click your heels, Dorothy, Sam thinks, worming his way down far enough to spread her open (and yeah, she is--she is wet). "For the record, I was against this."
"For the record, huh?" Sam tucks two fingers inside her, crooks them until she's shimmying up his thigh then fucking herself down, erratic pulses.
"You know, like. For our next suspension--shit, Sam, please." She makes a fist against the back of his neck, bumps their mouths together, hard and desperate.
I don't think Best's authority extends to the Penny, Sam is going to say, but someone slams up against the bathroom's outer door, loud, and they both freeze. Ten, maybe twenty seconds, pure electric panic; then whoever it is moves away. Sam breathes out in relief, all ready to step back, let her do up her jeans, fun's over, etc., but--
McNally slips a hand down beside his, rubs fast and hard. "Hurry," she hisses.
Jesus christ, Sam loves this girl.
(And like--that's fine, that is what it is, but he needs to quit thinking it. If he keeps thinking it, he's gonna start wanting to say it, which is, uh. Not gonna happen.)
In any event, he hurries, twisting his fingers while she works her clit (and she's efficient, McNally; he got her to let him watch her once, start to finish in maybe a minute and a half, arm thrown over her eyes and one heel sliding down the mattress. Any longer and Sam's heart might have thudded out of his chest.
“Okay," she said when she was done--gesturing bossily in his general direction, that pointy chin. "Now you go.")
He gets his free hand back up inside her t-shirt, rubs at her nipple with the pad of his thumb. Andy whimpers. "That's it," he mutters when he knows she's close, hips shifting and that telltale hitch in her breath. "Go ahead and come for me, sweetheart. I got you."
She's quiet when it happens, teeth at his shoulder through his thermal and the sound of people laughing outside the door. Sam works his fingers a little deeper, feels her clench.
She sighs after she's done, up against his neck and satisfied. Rubs her nose across his skin (she does it back now, sometimes, and it's not a thing they've ever mentioned but it's--it is definitely a thing). Sam fists a hand in her hair, feeling stupidly fond.
(They've just--they’ve got to wait here for a second. When McNally gets off she really looks the part, messy hair and a cold-weather flush, pink all across her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Everyone's going to know in about three seconds.)
Andy pulls their hands out of her pants on another sigh, lifts her wet fingers to Sam's mouth. It's not so much sexy as childish, a kid handing you their popsicle wrapper: done now, you deal with this. (Sam, uh. Finds it appealing anyway.) He rolls his eyes and licks them clean for her, the ragged edge of a nail rasping against his tongue. But then she does his, wet and deliberate up to the second knuckle, and--
Fuck.
She meant it to be a tease, Sam can tell by the way she's grinning at him. "Do you, uh." She plucks at his belt a little. "Want me to go guard the door?"
Sam huffs out a quiet little laugh. "Shut up," he mutters (and no, actually, what he wants is to push her jeans down, turn her around maybe; he wants a hundred unnameable things). "You good to go?"
"Yeah," Andy says. She looks up at him, nods, and very deliberately skims her index finger down over his zipper. "Totally."
Sam swallows. (He's not actually that surprised, is the thing: she's like this, the king of one-upmanship, sex as a competitive sport. He gets a kick out of it, normally, but normally they haven't been standing in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, everybody they know getting drunk on the other side of the door, so--) "McNally."
"What?" she asks, all innocence. She flattens her palm over his cock, presses a bit with the heel of her hand. Rubs. Then, quietly: "See how you like it."
"Liking it isn't really the issue, sweetheart." Sam tries to keep his voice even, not to push back against her touch. "McNally," he says, more firmly (he's got a rough time saying no to her, is the problem, but there's not a chance in hell he's about to--in here). "You're not helping."
Andy grins once, bright and wicked. "Dunno. Depends on your definition of help." She looks down at her hand, back up at Sam's face. "Sweetheart." Which--he knows she's just throwing that back in his face, it's never even been a thing he's particularly, like, liked (for instance, the way she used to call Callahan babe sometimes, his and hers varsity jackets, brassy like a high school cheerleader? no. no way), but.
Sam tries rolling his eyes, but it's working for him a little too well, constant pressure and that bossy twist of her mouth. He switches tactics. "Thought you wanted to leave."
Andy tips her face up; Sam just barely doesn't take the bait. "Yeah, well." She shrugs. "Probably you should hurry." (Oh, and she thinks she's such hot stuff, smug smirk and the way she's leaning, shoulders flat on the wall like she wants him to look.
Sam looks.)
"McNally." There's no way he's walking out of here now, not without using her as a human shield. (He bets she'd get a kick out of that, actually--she gets a kick out of anything that makes him sweat, more or less--provided, you know, there wasn't a roomful of their coworkers waiting outside.) "Seriously. Cut it out."
Andy looks down at her hand again, this slow sweep of her eyelashes. She's pumping him through the fabric a bit, setting up a rhythm. "You sure? Because I could--" She makes a hand motion that definitely, definitely means kneel. Sam screws his eyes shut.
(Which, absolutely not, there's no way he's letting her--on the floor. It's filthy, first of all, and even that is so far down on the list of reasons why-- he's going to get her home and naked and into a bed, is what he's going to do here, and then--)
"Swa-rek," she murmurs, singsong and goading. She flips her hand for a minute, rubs with her knuckles until she feels him twitch ("You're so easy," she told him once, topless and laughing, having successfully distracted him from a trip to the grocery she didn't feel like participating in. But like--he's not, usually, is the thing. It's, uh. Just with her). "Are you freaking out about not wanting to hit the brakes?"
Sam growls a bit at the back of his throat (he's aching, at this point, and he's not saying he can't pull it together but he needs her to--). "Funny."
McNally eases off just a little, like she wants to see if he'll follow. "Come on," she says, teeth at the stubble on his chin--and fuck, Sam really, really can't figure out how they got from her worrying somebody was going to see them talking to-- "Let me."
Jesus.
"Andy," he gets out around a groan, given names and his hips coming forward, and that's how she knows she's got him.
"I'll be quick," she promises (and she's grinning, he swears to god, sliding down the wall with this look on her face like she just took him for everything he's worth). She gets his belt undone and her hand around him, thumb swiping over the liquid at the tip. "Just, you know. Concentrate."
(Concentrate, fuck, as if Sam needs--)
She leans over to slurp at the head, delicate. The fingers of her free hand are scritching up the back of his thigh, too light, the way she works him when she wants him to--but no, absolutely not, Sam refuses to play that game in a fucking bathroom stall, of all places. He plants both palms on the wall, shoulder height; a reminder. "McNally..."
Andy laughs into his hipbone. "Okay, okay." She sucks him down about halfway, serious now, wet and messy. "Still--" looking up at him, all innocence and raised eyebrows. "You know, in the interests of time-saving--"
Jesus. Sam grinds his knuckles into the wall, tries not to look at her mouth. (She's right though, that's the worst part, it is absolutely the fastest way for him to--god. God. At one point, Sam swears he was modern.)
"Skip it," he bites off, closing his eyes again.
Andy shrugs against his thigh, smug as anything. "If you're sure."
(She's not actually kneeling, thank god. She's in this crouch, heels up off the floor, but still, anyone who comes in is--just looking under the stall door--they fail at rational decision-making, the pair of them.)
Andy starts humming, something she's never tried on him before. It feels--Sam worries the edge of a tile with his thumb, tells himself he is not is not is not going to reach for her hair. He stays still for the most part, head ducked and palms damp against the wall, and after a minute of that she pulls off with a smack. "Sam," she says. "Seriously. If ever there was a time not to be a prude about this--"
Sam snorts, disbelieving. "I'm not--"
"Yeah you are." Andy swallows. "I had half a beer out there at some point," she laments suddenly--totally random, like that's all they’ve got to worry about at the moment. She's trying again though, just shallow, teeth barely scraping the underside of his cock. "Probably gone now."
"I'll buy you another one," Sam mutters vaguely, but he, uh.
Does what she wants him to do.
It doesn't take long like that (fuck, it never takes long like that, warm mouth and her jaw relaxed and easy, his fingers catching at the tangles in her thick soft hair). He hangs onto the wall with his free hand, breath shuddering out, trying to keep quiet. Andy palms up and down his thigh.
"Okay," she says when it's over, pulling back to rest her head against his hipbone (and christ, she actually--she swallowed, jesus, he's maybe only seen her do that once before). "So. That happened."
Sam lets out a breath, pets through her hair a bit. She leans into it, makes that noise in the back of her throat. "Yeah."
"Probably we shouldn't be alone in bathrooms."
"Yeah."
"Okay." Andy claps her hands together; and break. Shoves herself to her feet, all action-cop, ready to motor. "We need to like--"
Sam drags her forward for a kiss, tasting himself on her mouth, sour and heavy. He has no idea if this fixed anything--she could go always back out there and pretend he doesn't exist again, who knows--and okay, probably they should have some sort of a grownup conversation sometime--like, a conversation-conversation, because double-talking around going steady in the parking lot like high school seniors doesn't count (head injury; that is Sam's excuse there)--but just. Not hitting the brakes.
That right there kind of does it for him.
Andy does up her zipper and slips out of the bathroom, still faintly pink in the cheeks; she taps a little rhythm on the door with her fingernails to let him know the coast is clear. Sam kills a minute or two in the half-dark hallway, screwing around with his phone--they're not fooling anybody, probably, but he feels like he owes it to her to at least try.
Still: "Where you been?" Ollie asks, when he finally shows at the bar (and he checked his fly twice before he came out here, thank you, made sure everything was on the up and up). Sam rolls his eyes.
"Your mother's house," he fires back automatically, then, off Ollie's expression: "What? Taking a leak."
Ollie's got a face on like hell of a leak, but in the end he doesn't say anything, makes a point of not looking at McNally. Sam fucking swears, Ollie can make a point of not looking at a person like nobody else he knows.
Sam looks, though; she's clear across the room with Nash and Jerry, already halfway through some animated story about a holdup at a chicken joint she and Diaz worked today. She's got her back to him, sharp wedges of her shoulder blades moving inside her shirt; noisy and macho, nothing going on here.
Well, Sam thinks, nodding at the bartender. There you go.
Then McNally glances over her shoulder; her grin, when it comes, is killer bright. "Hey Swarek," she calls, playing at surprised to see him, like maybe Ollie wasn't the only one wondering where the hell he'd been. "You wanna buy me that beer or what?"
Sam raises his eyebrows, smiles back.
Authors: threeguesses and lowriseflare
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Andy/Sam
Rating: R
Word Count: 7131
Summary: The one at the Penny.
Their first shift back after suspension, she literally won’t look at him all day.
Which--fine. That's fine. She's probably right, and anyway it's not like twelve hours is the longest he's gone since they started doing...whatever it is they're doing. She rides with Diaz. He rides with Peck. He runs into her in booking around lunchtime (runs into her literally; she’s not watching where she’s going, muscling some pimply-faced suspect down the hall): “McNally,” he says, totally professional. Andy mumbles something unintelligible in return.
Okay, sweetheart. Okay.
Only then they hit up the Penny afterwards (also fine, they haven't really seen anyone in a while, Sam gets it) and she’s still pulling this weird distance shit, like he didn't have her all sleepy-headed on his counter this morning, in between bites of cereal because "Sam, we have to be fast", and just-- it's possible he is slightly annoyed.
Which makes him feel like an asshole, frankly: Sam's dated a reasonable number of women, and he's never, ever been that guy. (There's a lot of guys he's never been until recently, to be honest. Sam's still working out what he thinks about that.) He just...had her to himself for three weeks, he guesses, some kind of impromptu crash course: Andy-McNally's-Guide-to-Sex-and-Jury-Rigged-Domesticity, levels one through four. That kind of thing's not built to last.
("Are you worried?" she asked him last night, propped up on her elbow and one idle finger tracing shapes across his chest. "That we've been in like, this bubble this whole time and now..." Andy shrugged.
Sam smirked a little, pushed her hair behind her ear so he could see her. "I'm definitely worried," he said seriously. "Once I'm around Ollie all the time again I just don't think I'm going to find you as attractive anymore."
Andy laughed once, cackling and bright. "I'll show you attractive," she promised, pouncing. They didn't talk about it again after that.)
He scratches the back of his neck a bit, glances across the bar until he sees her: she's arm-wrestling Epstein, Nash playing the ref. Sam rolls his eyes and orders another beer. After a minute Oliver joins him, tipping the neck of his Molson in what could either be a gesture of solidarity or a "brother, what are you doing with your life?" (Before parade, he corned Sam in the locker rooms and just said "seriously?" with varying inflections until Sam asked if Zoe was maybe watching a lot of Grey's Anatomy lately.)
"So." Ollie raises his eyebrows. "Back on the jo-ob. Back at the old one-five."
Somewhere to their left, Andy whoops in victory, Epstein accusing Nash of reverse sexism. Sam deliberately doesn't look. "Got something to say, brother?"
Oliver spreads out his fingers. "Nothing at all." He claps Sam on the shoulder. "Glad to have your overly-suspicious ass back." Then he’s turning around on his stool, hands cupped beside his mouth like a megaphone. "McNally! It's not nice to antagonize the children; come over here for some real action."
And just like that Andy's worming her way between them, grinning and bouncing and smelling like sugar (this cheap roller-ball perfume she wears; Sam's seen it twice now, little flowers across the front, ages four-and-up). "’K, but when you get beat, just remember you asked for it."
"Keep talking, Rookie." Ollie puts his beer down, rolls up his cuffs. "You want winner, Sammy-boy?"
And oh, that's very cute, the shit-eating grin and everything. Sam rolls his eyes. "Tempting, but. I, ah, think I'll pass."
"He's afraid," McNally puts in. She's being loud--that over the top, one of the guys bravado thing she does when she's uncomfortable. Nash and Epstein have followed to watch. "Thinks I'll humiliate him after I wipe the floor with you."
(Which, A: he's wrestled her more than once now and no, that's not what he's afraid of, thanks, and B: just--no. There is absolutely no way he's going to--in front of--too cool or not, Sam's got limits.
Still, though: there's really no reason for him to feel as irritated as he does.)
"You got me," he tells her dryly, stepping back so Nash can count them off. "That's what it is."
McNally scowls at him, puts her elbow on the bar.
And wins.
(It's possible Ollie throws it, but, uh. Sam's actually not totally sure.)
So then, of course, he's sort of stuck. "You can't let that go, sir," Epstein says, two-beer flush and an honest-to-god sweater vest. "It's an affront to, like--masculinity!"
Sam looks pointedly at the argyle. "Not to mine." But Nash is grinning and McNally's got her eyebrows raised, sharp chin out like a challenge (it's an expression he used to associate with headaches and protocol violation paperwork, Sam let's just check out this one thing, but after these past three weeks it has, uh. Some different meanings). Sam rubs a hand over his eyes, wishes he could just send them all out to recess or something.
"All right, McNally." (And seriously, he legitimately almost calls her sweetheart, where the fuck is his head?) "Let's go."
McNally smiles big and goofy like she's already beat him, makes a big show of limbering up. Sam drains half his beer in two long gulps. "Enough," he says (she's standing there cracking her knuckles like there's noplace in the world she'd rather be than in this bar arm wrestling of all fucking things, and jesus if he's going to do this he wants to do it already and be done). "Come on."
She shakes one more time like a Labrador, gets her bony elbow on the ledge. He hasn't been this close to her all day. At the house she was real physical, jumping on his back while he made dinner (which he was expecting), stroking gently along the lines in the palm of his busted hand (which he, uh. Sort of wasn't). She's wearing a white cotton t-shirt, the kind that come three in a pack for ten dollars, deep V gapping open a bit at the neck. Sam doesn't look.
"Unlike my buddy Officer Shaw," he tells her quietly as Nash counts to three, "I'm not gonna let you win."
McNally only pfffts.
(She, uh. Puts up a pretty decent fight, all told.)
By the time he finally gets her hand down to the bar--slippery with beer spills and condensation, maybe the worst arm wrestling venue ever, seriously--he can feel the tension singing in his shoulder, how he's breathing a little harder. Nash counts them out, boxing style, like maybe McNally's got five seconds to get her knuckles up off the mat (which: okay, Epstein's whining has slightly more validity now) but Andy just lets him hold her there, smiling a bit. She's gone all glowy, these grooves in her bottom lip where she was biting it (and like, Sam has wrestled her before, alright, in very specific circumstances, and just-- it's possible his body is having trouble remembering this is not one of them).
"You're out, Andy," Nash calls finally. Sam lets go of her hand like it's burning him.
Oliver claps him on the back, all smiles. "Better man than me, Sammy." Sam rolls his eyes, takes a long pull of his beer (which he, uh. suddenly needs). Ollie turns his attention to the rookies. "There you are, Epstein, we won the battle of the sexes. Go tell of the good news on high." And the kid actually goes, is the thing, trotting off towards Diaz, grinning like a loon.
"Thanks for that," McNally groans. She's falling into him a bit now; less of an audience maybe, that or she's finally decided they aren't thirteen. "This time tomorrow, the story'll be that he beat me himself."
"Yeah, well." Sam grins a little (he likes her like this, flushed and just this side of sweaty: one morning last week she came in from a run and he got her up against the wall of the foyer before she even took her jacket off, leggings around her knees and his mouth at the warm salty skin on the inside of her thigh. "You're gross," she muttered, head thudding back against the plaster, but she also definitely didn't tell him to cut it out, so). "You asked for it."
McNally's eyes widen, shifting her weight back and glancing over at Oliver right away like Sam just came out with some filthy double entendre, which--Ollie's not even paying attention, first of all; his phone's ringing inside his pocket, a ridiculous jaunty little tune ("Hi, darlin'," he says as he wanders away to answer it, so Sam guesses he must be out of the doghouse). Second of all, she literally did ask for it, and honestly Sam's had pretty much all the middle-school inanity he can handle for one day.
"Relax, McNally," he tells her quietly, and even at a murmur he can't totally keep the exasperation out of his voice. "I don't think any of the other kids heard."
Which--fuck, she does not like that one bit.
He hasn't had her mad at him much yet, ridiculous arguments about takeout orders aside (we've been in this bubble--yeah), and suddenly it feels just like old times: that insolent slash of her mouth, the way he feels like they're speaking different languages. "I'm just trying to be, like. Professional." She's honest-to-god whispering. There's no one within five feet.
Which--Sam knows what she's trying to do, is the thing, he got it two hours ago at the 15th, was on board even, but now he's just-- "Professional. At the Penny." Three tables down, Diaz is chugging a beer, some sort of lost bet.
McNally shrugs almost violently. Leaves her shoulders up, back bristled and fur standing on end. "It's a cop bar."
"A cop bar." This girl, Sam swears. "So basically I can't talk to you at any work-affiliated places, is that it? Is Tim Hortons is out too? Because god knows there's always a couple of uniforms in there. Hell--" He throws up his arms. "We might as well never leave the house in case someone, I don't know, sees us holding hands or something."
"And here I thought only J.D. was the hand-holding type," Andy says nastily. Face screwed up, twenty different kinds of bratty--jesus christ, it's like arguing with a seven year old.
"What do you want, McNally?" Sam scowls. There's a what the hell is wrong with you tone he gets sometimes that he knows hurts her feelings, one he tries not to use anymore since he figured out that's what it does. It's creeping in now, though, and he doesn't--he's tired, or something. It's been a long day. "You want me to go fuck myself until you decide you're ready to be buddies again? Cause I'm not gonna do that with you."
There's a joke there, clearly, but it's like she's not even listening to a word he said; she's fidgeting, snorting like a wild horse. "Jesus, Sam," she hisses, totally agitated. "Can you keep your damn voice down?"
Can he keep his--seriously? Kings of fucking Leon are blaring away on the jukebox and Peck's back there cackling louder than a murder of crows but McNally's worried--and she is, jesus, she's looking over his shoulder right now, like--
like she's a pain in the ass, is what, but she's also--she is freaked out. Sam's heart does a weird thing inside his chest.
(She cried again, and hard, three nights into it; Sam woke up and found her curled on the couch in his living room, watching reruns in the dark. "Couldn't sleep," she told him, calm as anything, and after that she burst into tears.)
"McNally," he says, more quietly this time. She leans in a little bit to hear. "Nobody is watching."
And alright, that one actually seems to register: Andy blinks like she's thinking about it, looks around for confirmation. Nash and Jerry are the closest, not evening facing them; on top of the bar, Nash has one finger resting against Jerry's wrist. Some of the fight leaves Andy's shoulders. "Okay, fine, but--" She makes face, gesturing helplessly.
But. Sam sighs. (What he'd really like to do is get his arms around her, hold on until she quiets. Take this somewhere she's less likely to spook.) He tries again: "Andy, sweetheart--" and he's whispering now; she doesn't even startle at the nickname. "Everybody already knows."
(They really do, jesus, Oliver and Nash and probably Jerry; Best, who asked and Sam didn't lie to. Even Peck's made a few comments.)
McNally makes another face, like she doesn't like thinking about it. "But--"
God. Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "Andy. What are you scared of?"
"What?" Just like that she's back to defensive, that arrogant thrust of her jaw. "I'm not scared of anything," she says snottily (which, nice try, but bullshit: it's either whatever she's feeling or whatever he is, Sam's pretty sure, although he honestly could not tell you which one if his life depended on it). "I'm just--I'm just--" She's just half a second from stomping her foot, is what it looks like, but in the end she only grabs his beer out of his hand and takes a long gulp. "I gotta pee," she says suddenly, once she's swallowed--
and bolts.
Of course she does.
Sam breathes out through his nose and kills the beer, debating. He's not gonna follow her. That's exactly what she thinks he'll do, probably, this ninth grade crap, fighting in the cafeteria during free period--
fuck.
He slams the bottle down and goes.
The Penny was built way back, old brick and shitty renos on top of shitty renos, seven different layers of paint on the bar. The ladies’ room is an afterthought, tacked-on in a dingy corner, 1980s yellow and out of place. Like maybe the owner woke up one day and watched Working Girl, realized women could be cops.
Sam cools his heels outside for a minute, considers how dumb he wants to be tonight.
(Answer: dumb.)
No one's inside but her, thank god--he'd recognize those boots anywhere. (There are only two stalls, stupidly; the architect clearly didn't understand women. They're forever flitting into the men's, this batch of rookies--Noelle too, although she knocks. Three weeks after Sam landed his ass back in uniform, McNally banged open the door while he was at the urinal, noisy and yelling over her shoulder. Both of them froze. Then she grinned, sly like she’d maybe been looking, and disappeared into a stall. And if Sam hadn't already been fond of her then--
well.)
"McNally." There's no way he's having this conversation through a door.
"I'm peeing," she announces, which she definitely isn't. Her jeans aren't even down. "God."
Sam rolls his eyes. "So pee."
"What are you, gonna stand there and listen to me like some kind of pervert?"
Like some kind of-- "Call the cops, sweetheart." Sam hooks his fingers over the top of the door and rattles gently, rests his forehead on his wrist. "McNally," he says again. "Open up."
After a moment the lock turns and there she is, this look on her face like she can't decide if she's embarrassed or pissed. "This is the ladies’ room, Sam."
"Shit," he says. "You're kidding."
Andy sticks her tongue out and makes a move to come out of the stall but Sam blocks the doorway, backs her up a couple of steps. "What are you doing?" she asks shrilly. "Move."
And Sam--Sam is not totally sure, to tell you the truth. He gets two fingers in her belt loops, nudges her back against the dingy tile wall. She's throwing a lot of heat through her t-shirt. "What," he repeats, right in her ear this time, "are you scared of?"
"Wha--I just told you I'm not--" Andy huffs noisily, shoves a little at his chest. "You!"
Sam sighs, knocks his forehead against hers lightly. "Me." And yeah, okay, he kind of figured, but just-- "What are you, worried I'm going to play grab-ass on shift?"
"Sam." She's shaking her head, like she either wants to take it back or bolt, Sam can't tell. "Can't we just, like. Talk about this at home?"
Which--
Okay, A: no, no way, the second he lets her out that door it'll be darts with Epstein or some shit, that bravado crap she pulls--everything's fine, nothing to see here. They'll never have this conversation again basically, is what Sam's saying. And as for B, well: "talk about this at home". Just--yeah. (Sam wasn't kidding about the crash course in domesticity, she's been back to hers maybe twice, a toothbrush and her own pair of his sweats--but home, fuck, he can't even.)
McNally's looking at him steady, doesn't even know what she said. Sam grins against her temple.
(Not running that scared, then.)
"Uh-uh, sweetheart." He tugs at her belt loops again, pulls her into him and then shifts his weight forward, knocking her hips against the tile wall. "We're doing this now."
Andy scowls at him like she's irritated, but she doesn't try to move. "I don't know," she says, fiddling with one of the buttons on his thermal. He can hear the Killers through the thin walls of the bathroom, restless hearts and loaded guns. "You don't feel like we skipped steps?"
"McNally--" Sam shrugs, settles for honesty. "I feel like we probably skipped a lot of steps, yeah."
She blinks at that, like she was expecting an argument. "So?"
"So, what?" He keeps his fingers in her belt loops. He's not letting go unless she says. "You wanna hit the brakes?"
"No," she says right away (and Sam just--okay. Okay. He tries not to relax too visibly), then squeezes her eyes shut like maybe she's embarrassed it came out like that. "I, like. Kind of don't?"
Sam nods slowly. "All right--?"
"But I should want to hit the brakes, is the point. I always want to hit the brakes. I don't even like to sleep over at people's--I mean, with Luke I didn't--" McNally breaks off abruptly, like maybe it just occurred to her that that's possibly not a useful example. "It's weird, is all I'm trying to tell you here. It is weird."
"Huh." McNally's weird can mean a whole lot of things: their twitchy informant down on Sherbourne is weird, wholewheat pancakes are weird, Peck's face when she's singing is "I don't even--Sam, you had to be there". (That one time against the door, all sweaty from her run; that other time, two days before the end of her period-- both were "seriously, Sam" and nervous body language everywhere, McNally shrugging and fussing with her hair afterwards, hands in her proverbial pockets: "So, um." Weird, sure, okay, but: she never told him to stop.)
Sam breathes out, something deep in his chest going loose then looser. "So. Let me get this straight: you're freaking out about not wanting to--?"
Andy rolls her eyes, plants a hand on his chest like she's getting ready to push. "Ugg, no, you know what, whatever, just--" She smooths over his shoulder, makes a face. "Basically, yes. Pretty much."
That's dumb, Sam doesn't say, because you can't tell women that. (And also because it's not, actually; it's maybe the best thing he's heard out of her all day. And god, it's stupid, it's completely stupid how happy he--) "Most people would consider that a good thing." He's smiling now, just a bit. McNally smells like candyfloss, something sweet and out of season. She doesn't want to hit the brakes.
"Yeah, well. I'm not most people," she says (and that--that is a fact, certainly). She grins at him a little, like she's pleased. "God, I can't believe you followed me into the bathroom."
Which--sure, McNally, absolutely. Sam smirks. "Yes you can."
Andy wrinkles her nose, picks a bit at the seam on his shoulder. (She's full of these little twitches, McNally: braiding the fringe on throw blankets, folding magazine reply cards into paper airplanes while they watch TV. She physically cannot have a beer bottle in front of her without peeling the label off and shredding it to soggy gray bits.) "I guess." She widens her stance a little, deepens her voice. "No rule book, and all."
Sam snorts. "Is that me?" He pushes his chest into hers just the slightest bit, gentle, until her back hits up against the wall. He's still got his fingers at her hips. "That was very nice."
"Thank you," she tells him, and yeah, it's a full-on grin now. She tilts her chin up in that way she does when she wants to get kissed but doesn't want to be responsible for doing the kissing, expectant.
(Sam takes the bait every time.)
For the first few seconds he just gets the edge of her smile, glancing. But then she's closing her eyes, leaning her head back against the title, and it's not so much bait as blatant invitation (she doesn't really do coy, McNally; her own brand of inelegant demands works on Sam at least twice as well). Sam kisses his way into her mouth until he can tell what she ate for lunch, kisses a little further until he's got her hips coming up off the wall. Andy makes a noise in her throat, satisfied, and god it's-- she gets this low-grade hum sometimes, one that's really more of purr (is not, Sam, shut up) whenever he feeds her good coffee, messes with her hair. (And that's another thing he never--she loves having her hair touched, will literally shove her head back into his palm if he even thinks about stopping.
Sam, uh. Doesn't mind so much.)
Normally it's relaxing, quiet time or whatever, but when she's making it right up against his mouth like that--
"Okay, so." Andy pulls back with a smack; leans in to peck him again, quick and bossy. "We're, like. Good then?"
As if Sam was ever the one who wasn't. "Yeah, sure McNally. I'll carry your books to first period."
She sticks out her tongue, which normally would have Sam rolling his eyes, but right now... She's ridiculous, is the thing, leaning back against the lockers and smacking her gum nervously, checking to see if he'll look (and he did, god, followed her right into the fucking bathroom) and Sam just--well.
He kisses her again, biting a bit. Just a little, just her lower lip. The edges of her tongue.
McNally whimpers.
And that--that is pretty much all Sam needs to hear. (It's possible he missed her today, is the thing, her smell and the casual press of her body, her fingers scritching absently at the back of his neck while he drives). His hands slide down to palm her ass, rubbing at the curve of it. Kneads a little through her jeans. McNally bites back: his bottom lip between her teeth and tugging him closer, two warm hands cupping his skull.
(And god, places Sam's fooled around lately where he probably wouldn't even have fooled around in high school: the emergency exit staircase of the movie theater halfway through that Brad Pitt thing she wanted to see so much and anyway movies are normal; the parking lot of a Best Buy in broad daylight.
Here, apparently.)
Sam pulls back enough to get his hands in between them, palms up her rib cage, skating over her breasts until they tighten up through her shirt. (Sports bra's back in rotation today, for work he guesses; the last few weeks he's gotten pretty familiar with the Andy McNally underwear catalogue, although mostly she just went without). He thumbs at her nipples a little, pinches how she likes. Andy gasps.
"Okay," she says, sort of breathless, her cheeks gone pink and flushed. "Okay, we need to--"
"Yup," Sam agrees seriously, and does it again. He's not going for anything serious, really, just wants his hands on her for a bit, reestablish the fucking pair bond or whatever, they can go out and play darts afterwards--but then Andy whines, hips coming up off the wall again, and--
And.
It's a specific sort of move, is the thing: this shallow begging arch and her thighs falling open just a little, the press of her zipper. It means she's feeling it, badly; it means touch me. When he does, 96 percent of the time she's already--she is worked up.
(God, she is 96 percent of the time anyway; Sam, seriously, she complained to him once, I just showered. It took him a few minutes to understand what she meant, neither of them even breathing heavy, sprawled out on the couch watching SNL.
Like, she muttered, this look on her face, you're going to get me all-- and Sam, well. He'd only been kissing her neck.
So then, of course, he had to check.
She was right.)
He hitches her closer, one hand sliding back down to her ass, palming her jeans pocket. She shifts a thigh until she's hugging his, hips stuttering like she wants to grind but isn't letting herself. "Sam." Oh, and she's urgent now, that edge creeping into her voice. "Let's--we should get out of here."
Probably, yeah. Sam presses up with his thigh, does the grinding for her (and okay, that's--by now, no way is she not--). "In a sec."
"Sam." It's half a laugh and half a groan, her face falling forward against his shoulder. Her hips are starting to work, though; she's up on her toes for leverage, fingertips sliding down into his collar. Sam smiles into her hair. (And he knows they're pushing their luck at this point; somebody's gonna walk in here any second and then she'll really have something to freak out about, will be out the door so fast it'll be a miracle if she doesn't transfer to another division. Sam knows that.
He wants to get her off, though.)
"Okay, okay." He slides his hands underneath her t-shirt, his mouth at the salty skin of her neck. "Go."
Andy growls. "That's not fair," she says petulantly, tips her head back to give him room. She pushes herself against his thigh one more time, hard, and even through two layers of denim he can feel how warm she is. "You're not being--jesus, Sam."
"McNally," he says, reaching down and popping the button on her jeans, slipping his fingers down into her panties (polka dots today, he thinks, it's hard to tell from this angle and god, this is stupid, this is already the stupidest he's been since the cover apartment). "I'm saying. Go ahead."
"Mean, you are so--" Andy's head thunks back against the wall, eyes screwed shut like maybe if she closes them hard enough they'll magically be transported somewhere else. Click your heels, Dorothy, Sam thinks, worming his way down far enough to spread her open (and yeah, she is--she is wet). "For the record, I was against this."
"For the record, huh?" Sam tucks two fingers inside her, crooks them until she's shimmying up his thigh then fucking herself down, erratic pulses.
"You know, like. For our next suspension--shit, Sam, please." She makes a fist against the back of his neck, bumps their mouths together, hard and desperate.
I don't think Best's authority extends to the Penny, Sam is going to say, but someone slams up against the bathroom's outer door, loud, and they both freeze. Ten, maybe twenty seconds, pure electric panic; then whoever it is moves away. Sam breathes out in relief, all ready to step back, let her do up her jeans, fun's over, etc., but--
McNally slips a hand down beside his, rubs fast and hard. "Hurry," she hisses.
Jesus christ, Sam loves this girl.
(And like--that's fine, that is what it is, but he needs to quit thinking it. If he keeps thinking it, he's gonna start wanting to say it, which is, uh. Not gonna happen.)
In any event, he hurries, twisting his fingers while she works her clit (and she's efficient, McNally; he got her to let him watch her once, start to finish in maybe a minute and a half, arm thrown over her eyes and one heel sliding down the mattress. Any longer and Sam's heart might have thudded out of his chest.
“Okay," she said when she was done--gesturing bossily in his general direction, that pointy chin. "Now you go.")
He gets his free hand back up inside her t-shirt, rubs at her nipple with the pad of his thumb. Andy whimpers. "That's it," he mutters when he knows she's close, hips shifting and that telltale hitch in her breath. "Go ahead and come for me, sweetheart. I got you."
She's quiet when it happens, teeth at his shoulder through his thermal and the sound of people laughing outside the door. Sam works his fingers a little deeper, feels her clench.
She sighs after she's done, up against his neck and satisfied. Rubs her nose across his skin (she does it back now, sometimes, and it's not a thing they've ever mentioned but it's--it is definitely a thing). Sam fists a hand in her hair, feeling stupidly fond.
(They've just--they’ve got to wait here for a second. When McNally gets off she really looks the part, messy hair and a cold-weather flush, pink all across her cheeks and the tip of her nose. Everyone's going to know in about three seconds.)
Andy pulls their hands out of her pants on another sigh, lifts her wet fingers to Sam's mouth. It's not so much sexy as childish, a kid handing you their popsicle wrapper: done now, you deal with this. (Sam, uh. Finds it appealing anyway.) He rolls his eyes and licks them clean for her, the ragged edge of a nail rasping against his tongue. But then she does his, wet and deliberate up to the second knuckle, and--
Fuck.
She meant it to be a tease, Sam can tell by the way she's grinning at him. "Do you, uh." She plucks at his belt a little. "Want me to go guard the door?"
Sam huffs out a quiet little laugh. "Shut up," he mutters (and no, actually, what he wants is to push her jeans down, turn her around maybe; he wants a hundred unnameable things). "You good to go?"
"Yeah," Andy says. She looks up at him, nods, and very deliberately skims her index finger down over his zipper. "Totally."
Sam swallows. (He's not actually that surprised, is the thing: she's like this, the king of one-upmanship, sex as a competitive sport. He gets a kick out of it, normally, but normally they haven't been standing in the bathroom for fifteen minutes, everybody they know getting drunk on the other side of the door, so--) "McNally."
"What?" she asks, all innocence. She flattens her palm over his cock, presses a bit with the heel of her hand. Rubs. Then, quietly: "See how you like it."
"Liking it isn't really the issue, sweetheart." Sam tries to keep his voice even, not to push back against her touch. "McNally," he says, more firmly (he's got a rough time saying no to her, is the problem, but there's not a chance in hell he's about to--in here). "You're not helping."
Andy grins once, bright and wicked. "Dunno. Depends on your definition of help." She looks down at her hand, back up at Sam's face. "Sweetheart." Which--he knows she's just throwing that back in his face, it's never even been a thing he's particularly, like, liked (for instance, the way she used to call Callahan babe sometimes, his and hers varsity jackets, brassy like a high school cheerleader? no. no way), but.
Sam tries rolling his eyes, but it's working for him a little too well, constant pressure and that bossy twist of her mouth. He switches tactics. "Thought you wanted to leave."
Andy tips her face up; Sam just barely doesn't take the bait. "Yeah, well." She shrugs. "Probably you should hurry." (Oh, and she thinks she's such hot stuff, smug smirk and the way she's leaning, shoulders flat on the wall like she wants him to look.
Sam looks.)
"McNally." There's no way he's walking out of here now, not without using her as a human shield. (He bets she'd get a kick out of that, actually--she gets a kick out of anything that makes him sweat, more or less--provided, you know, there wasn't a roomful of their coworkers waiting outside.) "Seriously. Cut it out."
Andy looks down at her hand again, this slow sweep of her eyelashes. She's pumping him through the fabric a bit, setting up a rhythm. "You sure? Because I could--" She makes a hand motion that definitely, definitely means kneel. Sam screws his eyes shut.
(Which, absolutely not, there's no way he's letting her--on the floor. It's filthy, first of all, and even that is so far down on the list of reasons why-- he's going to get her home and naked and into a bed, is what he's going to do here, and then--)
"Swa-rek," she murmurs, singsong and goading. She flips her hand for a minute, rubs with her knuckles until she feels him twitch ("You're so easy," she told him once, topless and laughing, having successfully distracted him from a trip to the grocery she didn't feel like participating in. But like--he's not, usually, is the thing. It's, uh. Just with her). "Are you freaking out about not wanting to hit the brakes?"
Sam growls a bit at the back of his throat (he's aching, at this point, and he's not saying he can't pull it together but he needs her to--). "Funny."
McNally eases off just a little, like she wants to see if he'll follow. "Come on," she says, teeth at the stubble on his chin--and fuck, Sam really, really can't figure out how they got from her worrying somebody was going to see them talking to-- "Let me."
Jesus.
"Andy," he gets out around a groan, given names and his hips coming forward, and that's how she knows she's got him.
"I'll be quick," she promises (and she's grinning, he swears to god, sliding down the wall with this look on her face like she just took him for everything he's worth). She gets his belt undone and her hand around him, thumb swiping over the liquid at the tip. "Just, you know. Concentrate."
(Concentrate, fuck, as if Sam needs--)
She leans over to slurp at the head, delicate. The fingers of her free hand are scritching up the back of his thigh, too light, the way she works him when she wants him to--but no, absolutely not, Sam refuses to play that game in a fucking bathroom stall, of all places. He plants both palms on the wall, shoulder height; a reminder. "McNally..."
Andy laughs into his hipbone. "Okay, okay." She sucks him down about halfway, serious now, wet and messy. "Still--" looking up at him, all innocence and raised eyebrows. "You know, in the interests of time-saving--"
Jesus. Sam grinds his knuckles into the wall, tries not to look at her mouth. (She's right though, that's the worst part, it is absolutely the fastest way for him to--god. God. At one point, Sam swears he was modern.)
"Skip it," he bites off, closing his eyes again.
Andy shrugs against his thigh, smug as anything. "If you're sure."
(She's not actually kneeling, thank god. She's in this crouch, heels up off the floor, but still, anyone who comes in is--just looking under the stall door--they fail at rational decision-making, the pair of them.)
Andy starts humming, something she's never tried on him before. It feels--Sam worries the edge of a tile with his thumb, tells himself he is not is not is not going to reach for her hair. He stays still for the most part, head ducked and palms damp against the wall, and after a minute of that she pulls off with a smack. "Sam," she says. "Seriously. If ever there was a time not to be a prude about this--"
Sam snorts, disbelieving. "I'm not--"
"Yeah you are." Andy swallows. "I had half a beer out there at some point," she laments suddenly--totally random, like that's all they’ve got to worry about at the moment. She's trying again though, just shallow, teeth barely scraping the underside of his cock. "Probably gone now."
"I'll buy you another one," Sam mutters vaguely, but he, uh.
Does what she wants him to do.
It doesn't take long like that (fuck, it never takes long like that, warm mouth and her jaw relaxed and easy, his fingers catching at the tangles in her thick soft hair). He hangs onto the wall with his free hand, breath shuddering out, trying to keep quiet. Andy palms up and down his thigh.
"Okay," she says when it's over, pulling back to rest her head against his hipbone (and christ, she actually--she swallowed, jesus, he's maybe only seen her do that once before). "So. That happened."
Sam lets out a breath, pets through her hair a bit. She leans into it, makes that noise in the back of her throat. "Yeah."
"Probably we shouldn't be alone in bathrooms."
"Yeah."
"Okay." Andy claps her hands together; and break. Shoves herself to her feet, all action-cop, ready to motor. "We need to like--"
Sam drags her forward for a kiss, tasting himself on her mouth, sour and heavy. He has no idea if this fixed anything--she could go always back out there and pretend he doesn't exist again, who knows--and okay, probably they should have some sort of a grownup conversation sometime--like, a conversation-conversation, because double-talking around going steady in the parking lot like high school seniors doesn't count (head injury; that is Sam's excuse there)--but just. Not hitting the brakes.
That right there kind of does it for him.
Andy does up her zipper and slips out of the bathroom, still faintly pink in the cheeks; she taps a little rhythm on the door with her fingernails to let him know the coast is clear. Sam kills a minute or two in the half-dark hallway, screwing around with his phone--they're not fooling anybody, probably, but he feels like he owes it to her to at least try.
Still: "Where you been?" Ollie asks, when he finally shows at the bar (and he checked his fly twice before he came out here, thank you, made sure everything was on the up and up). Sam rolls his eyes.
"Your mother's house," he fires back automatically, then, off Ollie's expression: "What? Taking a leak."
Ollie's got a face on like hell of a leak, but in the end he doesn't say anything, makes a point of not looking at McNally. Sam fucking swears, Ollie can make a point of not looking at a person like nobody else he knows.
Sam looks, though; she's clear across the room with Nash and Jerry, already halfway through some animated story about a holdup at a chicken joint she and Diaz worked today. She's got her back to him, sharp wedges of her shoulder blades moving inside her shirt; noisy and macho, nothing going on here.
Well, Sam thinks, nodding at the bartender. There you go.
Then McNally glances over her shoulder; her grin, when it comes, is killer bright. "Hey Swarek," she calls, playing at surprised to see him, like maybe Ollie wasn't the only one wondering where the hell he'd been. "You wanna buy me that beer or what?"
Sam raises his eyebrows, smiles back.