threeguesses: ([rookie blue] every trope in the world)
[personal profile] threeguesses
Title: thought it was a fever, found out if was a plague
Word Count: 1000+
Rating: R
Summary: It must be fucking exhausting.

AN: Written for Porn Battle XII.  Prompts: cookout, tan, and whine.


Apparently a McNally scorned isn’t really one of those hell-hath-no-fury type scenarios. At least, not that Sam can tell. Everyone knows two seconds after it happens, of course; Epstein and Diaz are assholes who can’t keep their mouths shut, and one look at McNally’s face confirms any rumours – shiny new rookie (I’m not a rookie anymore Sam shut up) with her shiny new ring suddenly… isn’t. (And Sam’s a bit taken aback— how bad he feels about that.)

It’s awkward for a while, most of the 15th caught up in a weird, who-keeps-what-friends shuffle. Post-breakup nonsense gone division-wide – serve, protect, and gossip, apparently. Sam keeps his head down, ignores the whole thing, and McNally must too because eventually it dies off. Which… Sam isn’t surprised, really, McNally’s pretty professional, dalliances with senior officers aside; he never expected her to hang out in the locker room and cry. It’s just— it would have been so easy. Unanimous opinion is on her side, cheater-victim, isn’t it so sad that poor girl. Like kicking a puppy.

(Callahan keeps his head down too, the bastard, but Sam reckons that’s just tactics.)

Easy, yeah, but McNally loves to make things hard on herself. She’s quiet for a few days, withdrawn (she rides with him and it’s just the most— even her fucking ponytail is drooping). Only then – she perks back up.

Aggressively.

He hears her laughing in the cafeteria, the locker rooms; two shots at Penny’s, giggling with the bartender (but never more, never drunk). Goofing off after patrol, horseshit jokes when Epstein is considered for the mounted division. Cheerful, all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips, good clean fun. It’s a big, fat, neon sign: ‘move along, nothing to see here’.

It must be fucking exhausting.

Like now. Some stupid barbeque, detectives’ midlife crises lining up the driveway, shitty above ground pool. A keg, for chrissake’s, like it’s the prom. And she didn’t have to come, either – it isn’t her circle, it wouldn’t have looked weird. It wouldn’t have looked like anything. He wants to take her hand and say, McNally, it’s okay, they’ve all stopped watching. Wants to tell her, relax.

Nash is the only other rookie who showed, leaning over the side of the pool to chat while McNally splashes around with her kid. (She’s good with kids, McNally; something Sam noticed and then didn’t notice any further.) It’s getting colder, threatening fall, but she’s still wearing a bikini, one of those cheap tie-ups from the Swimwear Hut and it’s just – it’s a lot of skin.

Sam’s about to tuck into his burger when he hears splashing, the sound of something wet hitting the deck. “Watch where you’re dripping,” Noelle scolds, and then McNally’s hovering over his folding chair, tall shoulders blocking out the sun. A very underdressed Terminator.

“Can I have a bite?” She hasn’t even bothered with a towel; Sam is eye-level with her bellybutton.

Focus.

“Nu-uh, no way.” She reaches over to make a grab and he dodges, water dripping onto his plate. “Go find your own.”

She pouts, doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t get it and doesn’t get it until she plants a hand on the back of his chair, leans into his space. The tie on her bikini is suddenly very close. Christ, she’s flirting with him, he realises, in front of Noelle and god and everyone, and what the ever-loving fuck.

“McNally!” he says sharply. It comes out low and harsh and fucking confused.

“God, fine.” She straightens back up. “Such a buzz kill.” She smiles at him, what would be a real killer smile if it ever reached her eyes, and starts wringing out her hair.

Onto his plate.

Sam sits there for a full minute after she sashes away. His chips have gone translucent, soggy.

“McNally!”

He catches up with her inside the door of the guest bathroom, pastel towels and scalloped toilet bowel, fancy soap he never knows if he’s supposed to use. He doesn’t even know why he’s pissed. She’s just— she’s too much for him right now, sharp little-girl chin, the insolent slash of her mouth. That bikini.

“What the hell?”

She rounds on him. “Me what-the-hell? You what-the-hell, Sam, you're following me into the bathroom.” And oh, she’s mad now, shoving at his chest. He thinks maybe she was mad all along, cold smile and Bond-girl flirting- just can’t for the life of him figure out why.

“You’re being a brat, McNally.” Her eyelashes are stuck together, weird spider shadows across her cheeks when she blinks. As if she’d been crying.

“Fuck you.” She swears like a preteen boy, all heat and no back-up. They're whispering now. It’s a tiny bathroom – this close she smells like chlorine, the red popsicle Nash’s kid was eating. Sam holds very still so he knows the last few centimetres of lean don’t come from him.

The window’s open; outside someone takes orders for a second round of burgers. McNally’s skin is cold, clammy; she squeaks when he boosts her up onto the sink. Sam resists the urge to grab one of the guest towels, give her a good solid rub-down. He can feel her teeth chattering as he mouths at her jaw.

She startles when he unties her bikini bottoms. He doesn’t— they’re in a bathroom, for god’s sakes. He just wants to look, maybe, check if her tan goes all over. He doesn’t know. Only then McNally tips her hips up. Wiggles a bit.

Fuck.

Sam drops to his knees, because this thing is not is not is not going to be consummated in a sink, but he has to do something. (And as it turns out, she isn't— tan all over. Right here, right in the vulnerable v between her thighs, she’s pale, just before the hair starts. Sam bites her there, lightly, and she whines.)

It’s the quietest sex he’s ever had. McNally hums in the back of her throat, curls her toes against his shoulder. Sighs a bit. Sam wants to hear her, wants to make her moan, so he adds a finger. Twists it slightly.

McNally nearly kicks his head clean off. “Sam. Jesus. The window.”

He rests his forehead on her thigh, smirking. “So don’t make noise.”

“So don’t do everything you can to make me make noise. God.”

Sam doesn’t even know why he's smiling. She still sounds pissed at him, sounds like this isn't something that can be fixed by an orgasm and a tumble in someone else's guest bath. But. She's stopped shivering. 

(And okay, yeah, maybe not now, maybe not this second, but there are all these things (the way she is with kids, her little-girl mouth, how she pouts and whether or not it's hereditary, we met on the force) and Sam's just— he's pretty certain.)

“Maybe I just won’t do anything,” he says, and when she shoves his head back down it’s a moment before he can actually keep going, he’s grinning that big. That hard.
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