threeguesses: ([daria] society sucks)
[personal profile] threeguesses
Title: In the middle of that riot, couldn't get you off my mind (Or, The One Where Sam and Andy Go Undercover And Bone)
Word Count: 4000+ of PURE WISH FULFILLMENT
Disclaimer: Disclaimed!
Summary: The dress doesn't fit.

AN: I may or may not have crammed in all the Canadianisms I could. WHAT OF IT, IT’S CANON. THE TITLE IS FROM A TRAGICALLY HIP SONG, AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.

(Also, yeah, this was for the Porn Battle, only then it got LONG. Prompts: undercover, sleepy.)


In the middle of that riot, couldn’t get you off my mind

The dress doesn’t fit.

It’s Peck’s, Sam’s pretty sure, and yeah, he can see how it would work – snug all the way down, that Marilyn Monroe shimmy – only it doesn’t. Not on McNally. Tight across the shoulders, loose across the hips, and she makes a face at him as Noelle fits her with a wire. Someone lent her lipstick, three shades too dark. (It would maybe be okay if she was supposed to be a pro, but she’s not, so.) They’re being borrowed, last minute additions to a narc-sting, and there isn’t time for anything better.

“Get to wear your own clothes,” McNally mutters and steps sideways, probably aiming for his foot. Sam laughs, catching her by the arm; she flexes a skinny bicep under his hold (and Sam’s a bit worried about that, actually, scattered flurries and coming up on the end of fall— but “a coat’ll muffle the wire,” Noelle had said, and McNally got that mule look, which: conversation over).

“Hold still,” Sam tells her. “These frickin' mikes can only handle so much.”

Noelle clucks her tongue, fiddling with the body tape. “You want to complain about the shitty equipment, you file a complaint about the shitty equipment. I am not your middle man.” She straightens up. “Now turn around. McNally, I’m going to need you to lift your dress.”

Sam doesn’t turn, but he doesn’t look. He can feel McNally staring at him, though, doesn’t really know what to make of that.

Doesn’t really know what to make of her, these days.

“Done,” Noelle announces after a moment. McNally slips by to sit on one of the locker room benches, looking relieved. She’s borrowed somebody’s mirror, one of those cheap magnetized things, bright purple. She blots at the lipstick impatiently; it makes it worse.

“Alright Swarek, shirt off,” Noelle says, rubbing her hands together. She looks way too amused, like maybe she can read Sam’s mind or something, finds it funny. McNally smirks into her mirror.

“Trying to decide who’s the fairest over there?” Sam asks, shrugging out of his jacket. She frowns at him, then herself, blotting more vigorously.

Noelle laughs. “Mmm, now, I think we all know that’s Oliver.” Her hands are cold against his bare chest. Sam doesn’t check to see if McNally’s looking.

“Oooh yeah,” Oliver crows through Sam’s earpiece, the Kool-Aid Man on surveillance duty. So. At least their mikes work.



Finally out on the street, they go slow, on account of McNally’s heels. Either pinching or too big, Sam can’t tell, but she’s got a wobble when she walks, Bambi on ice. Sam can’t swing an arm around her shoulders like he normally would (like the low-level thug he’s pretending to be normally would), has to take her elbow instead. Quaint, like an elderly couple, or schoolgirls. They are absolutely, definitely going to get made.

Except: two blocks from their target and she starts leaning into him, swaying with a little more purpose.

“Good girl,” Sam mutters, causing her to veer into him with a particularly vicious stumble. “Whoa, hey – we want drunk, not coked-out.”

“Oh, I’ll show you coked-out,” she hisses, going dead-weight on purpose. Sam catches her from behind, arms tight under her breasts, ass right where he doesn’t need it. She’s warm and there’s a chance she’s teasing him, a chance in ten she’s flirting. Sam can’t see her face to tell.

“McNally,” he says warningly. “We have to at least be let into the club.”

He catches the edge of her smile as she straightens in his arms, all the way up (those heels; she’s taller than him, just a bit). “Oh, we’ll get into the club.”

Sam smirks. “Yeah? Gonna woo the bouncer with your Charlie Sheen impression?”

“Tiger blood, baby,” she whoops, and lopes off unevenly toward the queue. She’s immediately waved under the rope. (And right, yeah, cop on the door, of course, Sam doesn’t even know why he said that, just— her warm back maybe.)

“McNally’s bi-winning,” Oliver purrs in his ear. “She wins here, and she wins there. Also, she’s probably really tired of pretending her life isn’t perfect and bitchin’.”

“Shut-up,” Sam bites off. The civilian bouncer gives him a weird look.

Fan-fucking-tastic.



The one saving grace of this operation: they aren’t key players. Or, at least— they aren’t supposed to be key players.

McNally though, she gets right up next to where the meet’s going down (it’s a big sting, involved – they’re after the supplier, some enterprising new idiot pumping crack into Dundas and Sherbourne). Close as she can, plopping herself down into a booth, legs and that dress flipping up more than it should.

“Supposed to be back-up,” Sam mutters in her ear, taking a seat.

“We can back-up from here,” she hisses, through her teeth and everything, like he’s pissing her off. Like he’s the one going off half-cocked on an important operation. Sam swears, sometimes this girl—

“You guys are fine, just sit,” Oliver cuts in impatiently, and then Barber’s announcing that the target’s in view, so Sam gives up and settles in, an arm across McNally’s shoulders, two beers they won’t actually be drinking. (Although maybe they can later, after the D’s finish; he’s dressed up, she’s dressed up, and Sam’s just—he’s thinking. Two months and a bit since things exploded with Callahan, and he’s thinking.)

Easy. Some quick and dirty overtime, hardly any paperwork. In and out.

Except.

The supplier’s muscle makes one of the key undercovers as a cop (a past DUI bust, looks like, and isn’t it just everyone’s shitty luck the idiot wasn’t drunk enough to forget faces). He gets spooked, they leave immediately, and it seems like that’s that, time for a drink McNally – only apparently Jerry has it in for him.

“For all they know, they just ran into an off-duty cop in a club. No harm, no foul. All we need to do is switch up the decoy buyer.”

And then, because Ollie has it in for him too: “Swarek and McNally – you guys are right where the meet was supposed to go down. Looks legit.”

And just like that, they’re principle undercovers one and two.



McNally’s out-of-her-mind excited, of course, bouncing and shivering outside the club. Fucking vibrating, practically. She’s probably generating enough energy to stay warm on her own, but Sam gives her his jacket anyway, zips it to her chin. She sticks her nose inside the collar, breathes deep.

“Hey now,” Sam tells her, “don’t get snot on that.” Noelle’s texting the supplier from the burn phone, asking why he never showed at the meet – luckily (or unluckily, depending) he and the original undercover have never met face-to-face. This was supposed to be the preliminaries, getting-to-know-you, etc.; a drug dealer first date.

“Won’t,” McNally says, and immediately sniffles. Sam rolls his eyes. Some detective from the 52nd is on the line with Oliver, feeding them information about the deal:

“Alright, listen up. You're a small-time dealer named Scott Whattam, and, I dunno, you’ll just have to make up her name. Amber. Sally. I don’t care—” (“Donna,” McNally interjects, and Sam gives her a look because seriously?) “The supplier is Joel Vaillant,” the D continues, “used to work out of Ottawa – coke, you know? Couldn’t break into the big supply lines though, money clients, that shit with the Senators, so he came down here, switched to crack—”

“Got him!” Noelle crows. Sam’s earpiece crackles at the change in volume; yeah, he’s filing a complaint. “Says it wasn’t a safe locale, wants to meet up elsewhere.”

“Let him suggest the place,” Oliver says. “Lull him into a false sense of security.”

“Or us into an ambush,” Sam mutters, rubbing his hands together. He looks over at McNally; her ears are starting to turn pink. Sam wants zip the jacket up higher, tighter, tuck that silky hair under the collar. He shoves his hands into his pockets instead. “You ready?”

“Yep.” Big grin, eager like a boy scout, and Sam swears, sometimes this girl.

“831 Dundas,” Noelle calls out, and they’re off.



They do some emergency background-construction in the cab.

“Am I a dancer again?” McNally asks. “I was good at that cover.”

She’s slumped down inside his coat, leaning into the stream of warmth from the crappy car-heater. Too-dark lipstick and no eye makeup, too-big jacket - she looks like she’s playing dress up, which— Yeah. They’re pretty much screwed.

“Watch your wire,” Sam says, and McNally straightens up. “Okay, sure, you’re my dancer girlfriend, and you’re very, very drunk. So drunk, you don’t talk.” She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t protest. Sam wonders if she might not be the slightest bit nervous.

“Hey,” he tries, a hand on her arm. “We’re going to be fine.” But she only rolls her eyes harder, so. Maybe not. The Hip’s on the radio, crooning about their fifty mission cap.

“Get in, plan the drop-off, and get out,” Oliver tells them. “Don’t get stupid.”

McNally’s three favourite words to ignore.

“We’ll be fine,” Sam says again.



They’re not fine.

The deal goes down okay – Sam’s believable as a crack distributer, the right kind of swagger, ignoring McNally because Scott Whattam can afford to treat women like dirt – only then they pick up a tail. The meet’s set for tomorrow, some warehouse, easy in-and-out sting (Sam’s bringing his “guys” to pick up the product)— except. Now there’s a dark Sedan following them up Dundas.

“Great,” McNally sighs from where she’s sat down on the curb, ostensibly to fix a heel. “Definitely tailing us.”

Sam looks and yeah, the car’s stopped. Wonderful.

“Was it me?” McNally continues, frowning. “Am I not a convincing enough drunk?”

“You’re a great drunk,” Sam says, because she was. Sam has two guesses about who she was imitating, and both of them are the same person. “It was probably that cop. What’s-his-face from the 52nd – the DUI back at the bar.”

“Yeah.” McNally sighs. “What now?”

Sam knows what-now, but he doesn’t like it.

“Hotel room,” Oliver decrees, dragging out the ‘o’ a little bit longer than necessary, thanks.

“Hotel room,” Sam echoes, and McNally pushes herself up off the pavement, sighing.



By the time they hit the check-in counter, she’s dragging. It’s deep into their overtime now, one a.m. and feeling like it’s later, like it’s threatening dawn. Sam pulls on a smile for the clerk, tries to look like a guy about to get laid. McNally leans into his shoulder. On the outside it probably looks like she’s going for his neck, like they’re hot and heavy; inside, and it feels more like a head butt, the hot breath of a yawn against his collar.

“So, what, Scott and Donna don’t have apartments I guess?” she mutters. The clerk hands them a pair of keycards, cold plastic.

“Maybe we couldn’t wait,” Sam says, and immediately regrets it, because shit, her face. “Or, you know, both our homes are being fumigated.”

“Bedbugs,” Oliver supplies. “Sammie attracts the vermin.” And Sam doesn’t know why it annoys him, that that’s what finally gets a laugh out of her. Ollie’s only helping him out.

McNally stretches up her arms, brushes her fingers against the low ceiling. “Or maybe we have really kinky sex, don’t wanna have to clean it up.”

There’s a good ten, twelve seconds where Sam’s brain goes completely blank.

“…Or that,” Oliver adds after a pause, and Sam clears his throat, says, “nah, see, I’m not really into the fecal matter,” and then McNally’s laughing so hard she has to lean against the wall. Sam has never felt more comically gifted in his entire life.

“Jerk,” she wheezes after she’s got her breath back, shoving at him with the flat of her palm.

“Sammie made a funny,” Oliver sing-songs (later, Sam will find The Really Fat Book of Bathroom Humour on his desk).

McNally’s still grinning as she walks backwards down the hall, bright and crooked. “I have my moments.”

“Sometimes,” Oliver says, meaning ‘good job’. Meaning ‘be careful’ and ‘man-up’ and a whole slew of other things Sam doesn’t understand, but appreciates.



There’s only one bed.

Which— of course, crack distributer, his drunk girlfriend, etc., etc., all perfectly legitimate and part of the cover, but it still has Sam— well. They’re adults, sure, but it’s maybe not the best combination, them and beds. And yeah, okay, Sam’s thinking, but he isn’t thinking that far ahead. There are steps.

Jerry and Oliver are checking in two floors down, some just-in-case backup. The guys from the 52nd are in a snit, their set-up, their collar, your training officer better not fuck this up, Barber. The normal shit. It pacifies them a bit to hear Sam’s background, but not much. D’s are elitist everywhere.

“Tail’s still sitting on you, Sammie,” Oliver says, voice bleeding through the static. “How do you want to play this?”

Sam sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. McNally’s dropped down onto on the teal bedspread, half-dead. Every second blink she tries to perk up, look alert. It isn’t really working for her.

“Check back in an hour? Maybe he’ll get bored, we can turn in early.”

“Got it,” Jerry says. “One wakeup call, coming right up.”

“Don’t lose your room deposit now, kids,” Oliver chirps, and Sam clicks off the mike right in the middle of their sitcom laughter. McNally tears her earpiece out, groaning.

“Dicks.”

“If they were here,” Sam reminds her, “we could play poker.”

“Nah,” McNally says over a yawn, and seeing her tongue– that gets to him, a bit. “I already gave myself up as a ringer.”

Sam puts a hand over his heart. “McNally! You would hustle us?”

“All day long.” She grins. “Guess it’s going to have to be tv instead.”

Inside the chesterfield, there’s a shitty relic sitting in an inch of dust – Sam dates it at 1998, 1999 at the outset, and that’s being generous. He supposes they’re lucky it doesn’t have bunny ears.

“You couldn’t hustle me,” he murmurs as she flicks through the channels. “I would know.”

“You would know, huh?” She settles on a Back to the Future marathon. “I used to watch this with my dad.”

“So did I,” Sam says. It’s a dad movie. It’s on his list – Star Wars and the Indiana Jones series. Things to show his kids. It shouldn’t matter that she likes it. (It does.)

McNally scoots up the bed, shoving at the blankets until she’s made a nest she can slip into. Sam sits down next to her, cautiously; her elbow brushes his hip as she wiggles. On screen, the Doc is firing up the DeLorean.

“Sleep shifts – wake me in 30?” she slurs.

Sam gets up to hit the lights, grab some provisions from the vending machines. He rests his head against the Coke logo, just for a minute; sticks both hands inside the ice bucket to wake himself up.

When he comes back, McNally’s out cold, “Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream” tinkling away on half-volume. Marty McFly falls out of a tree, meets his mother.

Sam lets her sleep for 45.



“Still there,” Oliver says at 2 a.m. At 3 a.m., 4.

“God, what is he waiting for?” McNally groans after they switch off the mike. Her hair’s in serious trouble, pillow creases and dress all mussed. Her lipstick has long since worn off.

“Dunno,” Sam says. “Dawn?”

“I hate him,” she whines. “I hope there’s a shootout tomorrow at the drop off – god, today, today at the drop off – and he dies.” She makes a face. “Okay, is seriously injured.” Another face. “Okay, maybe not serious – but painful. Painful and superficial.”

Sam just watches her.

“Oh, and also, I hope no one else gets injured,” she finishes, leaning over Sam to knock on the bedside table. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her it probably isn’t real wood.

“That’s some cold hard revenge there, McNally,” he says, because she’s still leaning, and he has to do something with his mouth.

“I’m a hard woman,” she says, right before she leans in the rest of the way and kisses him.



“Okay, wait, hold that thought,” she says five minutes later, shifting out of Sam’s lap (out of his lap, and how did they even—) “One sec.”

“Um,” is all Sam can manage; his brain hasn’t quite caught up with the proceedings. Every inch of his skin feels tight, hot. On screen the third Back to the Future chugs away, bad cowboy costumes and a train hijacking. The Doc doesn’t believe in love at first sight, and then he does. “McNally?”

“Hang on, hang on,” she calls, hopping out of the bathroom with the complimentary bottle of mouthwash clamped between her teeth. “Sorry, it’s just, my mouth tasted like ass.”

“Did you swallow that?” Sam feels like someone's borrowed his brain. She chucks the bottle at the dustbin, overhand; her dress shifts, unzipped down the back, and Sam catches a glimpse of her bra. It’s purple.

“Nothing but net!” she crows. And then she’s back in his lap, squirming and smelling strongly of warm mint, and Sam makes a noise that means stop, or wait, or what, because fuck, there are steps, and how exactly can they—

“McNally, wait, shouldn’t I…?” He makes a vague motion towards the discarded bottle of mouthwash.

“What?” She blinks. “Oh, no, yeah, your breath is fine.” And then she’s biting his lip and going for his belt, and christ, the squirming. Sam needs to slow this down right now.

He collects her hands, tugging both of them behind her back and holding them there, thumb and finger circling her wrists. She whines in his ear, curious (but not protesting and that— okay, yeah, but not the point Sammie, move on). He gets his free hand on her back, sliding under the open zipper. She’s so warm she’s burning, which means she’s sleepy, which means Sam only needs to hold her still for a little while.

He kisses her slower and longer until she stops squirming, starts leaning into him properly. There’s a menthol zing lingering on her tongue, behind her teeth. Sam licks it away. Bites her neck. Just a little, just lightly; testing. She goes limp against him and bingo – Bob’s your uncle. Sam lets go of her wrists.

She yawns into their next kiss. Sam smiles.

Thirty-five minutes until the next check-in; they make out lazily for ten of them before Sam starts to sense trouble. McNally’s stretched out across his chest, but she keeps shifting her weight, pressing down with her hips. She’s not quite straddling him, but another minute and she will be.

“’nally,” he slurs through her lips, “we’re working.”

“Oh, and this is already real professional,” she snarks, arching her back. Her stomach grinds into his dick. Shit. Sam sets his teeth.

“McNally,” he warns.

“I’m not doing anything,” she murmurs, eyes closed like she’s sleeping. She shifts to straddle him properly, starts up a slow, heavy rhythm. “Really not.”

“You really are,” Sam grinds out. His hands find her hips. The dress is thin; it’s almost like she’s not wearing anything.

“Not,” she says stubbornly, tucking her face into his shoulder. Some of her hair falls across nose, cool and smelling of peaches.

Ten minutes of that. Ten minutes of that, and Back to the Future ends, an Air Farce rerun gearing up, and Sam hasn’t come in his pants since he was sixteen years old, but fuck, it’s going to happen again now unless— “McNally,” he hisses, clutching at her hips more urgently. “I can’t—”

“Oh.” She looks down at him through a curtain of hair, a little surprised, and yes, Sam knows, thank you, it’s just that he’s tired, and she’s so— “Right.” She lifts off, slides a hand down between them, unbuttons his jeans. Undoes his belt. And that was very much not what Sam meant, actually, he meant stop (he thinks), but then she’s bounding off the bed again and he can’t help but be a bit annoyed.

“McNally?”

“Coming, coming,” she says, climbing back on top of him, this time with a tissue, and Sam doesn’t even have time to protest before she’s clamping a hand over his mouth, the other around his cock. “Ten minutes till check-in, Sammie.” All teeth, and oh, she’s pleased with herself now. “Gotta motor.”

“Hey, hold on a—,” Sam starts, but then she tightens her grip, and whatever he wanted to say gets choked-off in a grunt. McNally stretches out beside him, face curious, and wonderful, just fantastic, she’s going to watch the whole— Sam throws an arm across his eyes.

“Not fair,” she says, nipping at his fingers. Then she starts sucking and that’s what does it, actually, that right there. Sam might have a bit of a thing for her mouth.

(“Andy, Andy, Christ—” he says, and she murmurs back at him, quiet and hushed. He won’t remember what she said.)

“Nothing but net,” she whispers as she tosses the tissue into the wastepaper basket. Sam’s just about to kiss her when the alarm buzzes for check-in.



“He’s gone,” Oliver announces proudly. “No one out here but the birds.”

“Great,” Sam sighs. His pants are still undone. McNally’s sitting cross-legged on the bed across from him, smiling mischievously. “’K McNally, we can leave.”

She’s up and moving in seconds. “Oh, thank god. I really miss my toothbrush.”

“Right,” Sam says, rubbing at the back of his neck. He feels like there’s something he should be doing here. Apologising. Kissing her. Anything.

“Bi-winning, Sammie boy,” Oliver chirps and man, that name’s going to have some weird connotations from now on. On screen, Rick Mercer is just beginning his monologue.

“Come on,” McNally calls, insistent. She’s already zipped her dress back into place.

“Right,” Sam says again.



Down at the checkout counter, McNally quiets again. Like all that exhaustion is just hitting her or like she’s pissed, Sam can’t tell. Isn’t sure he wants to know. The kid at the desk is slow making change, headphone volume up so high Sam can hear every word, tinny, like a far-away radio. The Dire Straits filter through, telling them it was just that the time was wrong.

“Listen,” McNally starts, kicking at the desk, shoulders hunched like some punk kid (some punk kid in an ill-fitting dress and stacked heels). “We have to head to the meet in a couple hours.” She frowns at the floor, like maybe it’s the one who messed up and fucked its rookie. Sam could roll with that excuse. “So. You wanna grab breakfast?”

What? “What?” Sam says.

“Breakfast.” McNally looks up. “Normally I’d say you’d have to buy me dinner, but…”

“I’ll buy you dinner,” Sam jumps in, finally finding the thread of this conversation. “Also breakfast. Lunch, even.” McNally’s starting to grin. “Um.” Sam scratches at his neck. “So. What do you want?” He winces.

“Don’t care.” She cocks her head at him. “Would you buy me brunch?”

She’s wearing his jacket. Sam decides not to mention it. “Don’t get ahead of yourself now, McNally. Brunch is a serious meal.”

“Oh, okay.” She’s still smiling. “We’ll work our way up.”

“iHop, then?” Sam asks, switching on his mike. McNally nods, and the way they’re grinning at each other, it’s just— it’s stupid. “Hey Ollie, we’re going to iHop. You want anything?”

“One of those iced coffees," Ollie says. "Mocha. Need the strength.” A pause. “Now tell me, McNally: does Sammie snore?”

“Like a train.” She kicks at Sam’s shoe. Her smile’s dazzling, permanent, and man, everyone’s gonna know in two seconds.

“Knew it!” Oliver crows. Sam shakes his head. The clerk measures out the change into his palm, coin by coin; a new song drifts through the kid's headphones, The Talking Heads telling them it’s never for money, always for love. Outside the streets are wet asphalt, sun just coming up, burning through the smog.

“Brunch too,” Sam tells her. “I’d buy you brunch too.”

“It’s a serious meal,” McNally says. And smiles.
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