fic: Castle and Keep
Title: Castle and Keep
Author: poeelektra
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Sam/Andy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1189
Summary: "You seem more like a bach-pad guy than the Lowe's Home Improvement type."
Author's Note: Owed entirely to lowriseflare, who originated the 'crappy triple-decker' idea, my favorite bit of Sam backstory yet.
This time it's a change of clothes, not dope-slanger cash they're after when their squad car pulls to a stop at the curb, and Andy realizes, belatedly, that Sam doesn't actually live in a thin-walled studio walk-up near Regent Park. Still, a three-story fixer-upper isn't what she'd have envisioned if she spent time thinking about Sam's bachelor pad.
"You live here?"
Sam stares out the window at it for a second, then makes a face like her incredulity isn't warranted, which it totally is.
"Yes, McNally, I have a home. What, you thought my life was a crappy rental five blocks from The Penny?"
Actually, she'd forgotten all about that place. Memories of that night are singed in to her brain, but have more to do with the flickering of candlelight, strong hands gripping her thighs, the taste of him above her and the smell of his sheets below…she'd been less concerned with the walls that held him.
"No, I mean. It's great."
His hand rests on the door handle.
"I'm so glad you approve. Now we could sit here looking at it, or we could--."
He gestures with his chin, then is extricating himself from the car with the caution due a guy wearing a vomit-stained uniform. Friday night bar crawl calls never treat them well.
Andy scrambles to follow, surprised to have been offered even that vaguest of invitations, and hits the porch just as he's sliding a key in to the deadbolt.
"It's, um . . . "
The lie she'd been prepared to issue, in case men and their houses were like men and their cars (not that Sam was like most men) dies on her lips when the door swings open and she’s greeted with an open entryway that’s unencumbered by things like drywall and flooring, so stripped down it looks skeletal.
Sam is propelling forward as if she hasn't spoken, heedless of her shock. She closes the door and lets her gaze meander, trying to take it in with a different eye, fill in the missing bits around the superstructure. Sam shouts back at her from the dark space where he disappeared.
"Don't touch anything!"
Right.
Andy follows his voice. Walking around a staircase and through a row of vertical two-by-fours she's pretty sure are supposed to be a wall, she finds herself stepping on to curling linoleum, in to a kitchen that's almost as sad as the foyer, if more functional. A pea-green refrigerator is the most prominent object in the room. She's inspecting the face of it-some photos of kids, a Christmas photo of three girls who have to be Oliver’s, a picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman who looks a lot like Sam--when his voice carries to her again, closer this time.
"I'll just be a second. Try not to step on any nails out there."
She hears the sound of rustling cloth, the bang of a metal lid, then the rush of water through the pipes as the washer starts up. Then Sam is back in his improbably green kitchen, clad in nothing but black boxer briefs and leaning over the sink to scrub his hands.
"So, that was pretty disgusting back there. You didn't even flinch."
His mouth curls up.
"Yeah, well. That's the job. Character-building."
Which is all he has to say about that, apparently, still doing a number on his hands, back toward her (long legs sparsely covered in dark, coarse hair, and muscles she would recognize by touch flexing lightly in his back)-so she distracts herself with the most obvious line of conversation.
"You seem more like a bach-pad guy than the Lowe's Home Improvement type."
Sam flicks the faucet off, grabs a green dish towel from the oven door, and turns, unselfconscious about his state of relative undress.
"That's because you don't know much about me, McNally."
He says it with one of his quicksilver grins that is half dig, half dare; but then he glances around, as if trying to see this gutted, empty space from someone else's perspective. Finally he shrugs, like her speculation doesn't matter.
"You live 8 months in a hole where you can't take two steps left and you're always listening to someone have sex the next room over . . .." Sam trails off, like that wasn't the response he meant to give. "I'd finished Moby Dick, needed a new project. It was either this, or War and Peace. Uniform's upstairs, I'll just be a minute."
Then he's traipsing back through the framework, barefoot, and Andy has to bite her tongue not to say something about the nails.
*
There's no railing, so Andy climbs slowly. The stairs creak under her feet, but they feel solid. The whole house does, but she doesn't know if that's just an effect of it being Sam's. The next level is completely different, like she's just walked on to a television set, artifice of life so real you'd never know there's bare concrete beyond it. It's not Sam's style--sun-bleached wallpaper with tiny flowers, old-fashioned light fixtures on the walls-so Andy guesses he’s working from the bottom up. She comes to a stop at a half-closed door, not wanting to breach that barrier.
"So, you have a plan for all this space?"
His response is muffled, like it's coming from within a closet.
"My plan is to rip it all out, then put things back in the way I want them."
That sounds like Sam.
Andy wanders down the hallway to a small window. He's got a yard--a little overgrown at the edges, but well-kept, and she tries to imagine Sam on the weekends, pushing a mower, pulling weeds. It's an odd picture, takes some shifting in her brain to make space for it. She raises her voice to carry to him.
"It's kind of a lot of house for one guy."
His answer is close enough that she jumps. Dammit. Not many people can do that to her anymore. He's buttoning a fresh uniform shirt, and his answer is evasive.
"It was crowded where I grew up. I wanted more room."
She thinks about the snapshot of the woman on the fridge; of her own childhood, the two bedroom apartments she and her dad shared. She could see kids running around in that backyard.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can get that."
Sam finishes tucking in his shirt and shoots her the brows-raised, expectant look that always makes her think there's something she should know that she doesn't.
"Now that we've finished the tour, think we can get back out there?"
She rolls her eyes and brushes past him, anxious to be out from under that gaze and the thoughts that that yard, this house, have provoked.
"You didn't give me a tour, Swarek."
He's pounding down the stairs behind her, steps as sure as they are on flat pavement.
"Next time, McNally."
On the way back to the precinct, she watches the river as they roll by, water dark and reflecting the city lights. She remembers the way he said "home," and lets it warm her.
Author: poeelektra
Fandom/ Pairing: Rookie Blue, Sam/Andy
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1189
Summary: "You seem more like a bach-pad guy than the Lowe's Home Improvement type."
Author's Note: Owed entirely to lowriseflare, who originated the 'crappy triple-decker' idea, my favorite bit of Sam backstory yet.
This time it's a change of clothes, not dope-slanger cash they're after when their squad car pulls to a stop at the curb, and Andy realizes, belatedly, that Sam doesn't actually live in a thin-walled studio walk-up near Regent Park. Still, a three-story fixer-upper isn't what she'd have envisioned if she spent time thinking about Sam's bachelor pad.
"You live here?"
Sam stares out the window at it for a second, then makes a face like her incredulity isn't warranted, which it totally is.
"Yes, McNally, I have a home. What, you thought my life was a crappy rental five blocks from The Penny?"
Actually, she'd forgotten all about that place. Memories of that night are singed in to her brain, but have more to do with the flickering of candlelight, strong hands gripping her thighs, the taste of him above her and the smell of his sheets below…she'd been less concerned with the walls that held him.
"No, I mean. It's great."
His hand rests on the door handle.
"I'm so glad you approve. Now we could sit here looking at it, or we could--."
He gestures with his chin, then is extricating himself from the car with the caution due a guy wearing a vomit-stained uniform. Friday night bar crawl calls never treat them well.
Andy scrambles to follow, surprised to have been offered even that vaguest of invitations, and hits the porch just as he's sliding a key in to the deadbolt.
"It's, um . . . "
The lie she'd been prepared to issue, in case men and their houses were like men and their cars (not that Sam was like most men) dies on her lips when the door swings open and she’s greeted with an open entryway that’s unencumbered by things like drywall and flooring, so stripped down it looks skeletal.
Sam is propelling forward as if she hasn't spoken, heedless of her shock. She closes the door and lets her gaze meander, trying to take it in with a different eye, fill in the missing bits around the superstructure. Sam shouts back at her from the dark space where he disappeared.
"Don't touch anything!"
Right.
Andy follows his voice. Walking around a staircase and through a row of vertical two-by-fours she's pretty sure are supposed to be a wall, she finds herself stepping on to curling linoleum, in to a kitchen that's almost as sad as the foyer, if more functional. A pea-green refrigerator is the most prominent object in the room. She's inspecting the face of it-some photos of kids, a Christmas photo of three girls who have to be Oliver’s, a picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman who looks a lot like Sam--when his voice carries to her again, closer this time.
"I'll just be a second. Try not to step on any nails out there."
She hears the sound of rustling cloth, the bang of a metal lid, then the rush of water through the pipes as the washer starts up. Then Sam is back in his improbably green kitchen, clad in nothing but black boxer briefs and leaning over the sink to scrub his hands.
"So, that was pretty disgusting back there. You didn't even flinch."
His mouth curls up.
"Yeah, well. That's the job. Character-building."
Which is all he has to say about that, apparently, still doing a number on his hands, back toward her (long legs sparsely covered in dark, coarse hair, and muscles she would recognize by touch flexing lightly in his back)-so she distracts herself with the most obvious line of conversation.
"You seem more like a bach-pad guy than the Lowe's Home Improvement type."
Sam flicks the faucet off, grabs a green dish towel from the oven door, and turns, unselfconscious about his state of relative undress.
"That's because you don't know much about me, McNally."
He says it with one of his quicksilver grins that is half dig, half dare; but then he glances around, as if trying to see this gutted, empty space from someone else's perspective. Finally he shrugs, like her speculation doesn't matter.
"You live 8 months in a hole where you can't take two steps left and you're always listening to someone have sex the next room over . . .." Sam trails off, like that wasn't the response he meant to give. "I'd finished Moby Dick, needed a new project. It was either this, or War and Peace. Uniform's upstairs, I'll just be a minute."
Then he's traipsing back through the framework, barefoot, and Andy has to bite her tongue not to say something about the nails.
*
There's no railing, so Andy climbs slowly. The stairs creak under her feet, but they feel solid. The whole house does, but she doesn't know if that's just an effect of it being Sam's. The next level is completely different, like she's just walked on to a television set, artifice of life so real you'd never know there's bare concrete beyond it. It's not Sam's style--sun-bleached wallpaper with tiny flowers, old-fashioned light fixtures on the walls-so Andy guesses he’s working from the bottom up. She comes to a stop at a half-closed door, not wanting to breach that barrier.
"So, you have a plan for all this space?"
His response is muffled, like it's coming from within a closet.
"My plan is to rip it all out, then put things back in the way I want them."
That sounds like Sam.
Andy wanders down the hallway to a small window. He's got a yard--a little overgrown at the edges, but well-kept, and she tries to imagine Sam on the weekends, pushing a mower, pulling weeds. It's an odd picture, takes some shifting in her brain to make space for it. She raises her voice to carry to him.
"It's kind of a lot of house for one guy."
His answer is close enough that she jumps. Dammit. Not many people can do that to her anymore. He's buttoning a fresh uniform shirt, and his answer is evasive.
"It was crowded where I grew up. I wanted more room."
She thinks about the snapshot of the woman on the fridge; of her own childhood, the two bedroom apartments she and her dad shared. She could see kids running around in that backyard.
"Yeah. Yeah, I can get that."
Sam finishes tucking in his shirt and shoots her the brows-raised, expectant look that always makes her think there's something she should know that she doesn't.
"Now that we've finished the tour, think we can get back out there?"
She rolls her eyes and brushes past him, anxious to be out from under that gaze and the thoughts that that yard, this house, have provoked.
"You didn't give me a tour, Swarek."
He's pounding down the stairs behind her, steps as sure as they are on flat pavement.
"Next time, McNally."
On the way back to the precinct, she watches the river as they roll by, water dark and reflecting the city lights. She remembers the way he said "home," and lets it warm her.