threeguesses | FIC: Table seats four and a couch seats three [rookie blue, sam/andy]

Current Mood: awake

Entry tags:

FIC: Table seats four and a couch seats three [rookie blue, sam/andy]

Title: Table seats four and a couch seats three
Word Count: 1500+
Rating: R

AN: I have absolutely no idea why I wrote fic that's going to be Jossed in less than two days. Title from Joel Plaskett, just to switch it up with the Canadian band theme.

Table seats four and a couch seats three

Sam spends the morning alternating between feeling stupidly pleased and just straight-up stupid. (Only, when he runs into Brennan on his first shift all he gets is a “well played” and a pat on the back, so. Probably he isn’t going to die over this.) He works right up until lunch, shifting supplies (not product—legitimate supplies, chairs and tables and chesterfields, antiques for the front business; Brennan doesn’t quite trust him yet), then eats a sandwich in the back of the truck, hands twitching like he’s still touching her. Like he wants to grab at something, and cold cuts on rye really aren’t doing it for him.

Well. They really aren’t.

The nervous energy sticks until around three. Three-thirty, and his body starts to remember the one hour of sleep it got (one fucking hour, because they waited and waited until the last possible minute—Andy shoving herself down onto his cock, half-laughing, half-moaning, “God, Sam, I’m going to be so late”—and then after that they waited some more; kissing in the doorway, the way her mittens felt against his bare chest). By five, Sam’s yawning at every red light. Benny, the kid he’s riding with, offers to take the wheel. Which is saying something—Benny can’t drive.

So. Bottom line: Sam gets back to his crappy flat where the bed sheets are still messed up and everything smells like her, and he’s wondering, just a bit, why he went under in the first place.

(“I miss you,” she says, after Ernie the Zamboni driver but before dawn, head buried in his neck so he can’t see her face. “Not like, all the time, or anything. You just always made the best coffee.”

Sam rubs at the curve of her waist (unexpected; he always thought she was straight up-and-down, coat hanger hips like a runway model). “Tell Ollie I said to get you some.”

“Ha. He’d never.” She brings her head up and Jesus Christ, she may actually be pouting at him. Sam can’t tell if it’s put-on—if she’s mocking that kind of girl—or if she’s serious. (Dear god, but she’s young. Sam wants to feel bad about that.) A blink and she’s a copper again, that hard set of her mouth. “Anyways. I can get my own.”

This girl. Sam swears she’ll give him whiplash. “Right.”

A beat. “I like yours better though.”

“Right.” Then: “Miss you too.”)

So.

Still, mostly he avoids thinking about it. Tries, anyway. (What he does do: collapse into bed face-first, sleep for the next ten hours.)

That’s the first day.

The second day, though, that’s his day off. (And there’s some trouble—idle hands, all that bullshit.) Sam wakes up feeling like he could run a 5k, no warm up; easy. Problem is, Sam doesn’t run.

He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, rolling the burn phone back and forth between his palms. Thinks about calling Boyd. Not to report the slip-up or anything, just—the way you’d call a sponsor (he needs some sense knocked into him, is the thing). Except Boyd hates McNally, would probably love to stir up shit for her, so. That’s out.

Eventually he stops by the grocery store, buys a bunch of fresh produce he doesn’t need for a truly ridiculous price (it’s Toronto, the middle of November; at least the clementines are cheap). There’s no reason to, it’s just that McNally got up around four in search of food and pronounced his jar of pickles and leftover takeout “sad”; Sam drops a head of lettuce into the crisper, figures it’s a marginal improvement. Besides which, better nutrition is never a bad idea. (Although, how furtive he feels picking out those avocadoes—Yeah.)

Come lunchtime, he’s out the door again.

By 1:15, he’s ducking into a public library, hood up and tuque pulled low, ancient dial-up connection creaking away. He brings up gmail; a tap of the keys and he’s zamboni_37; a tap of a couple more and he’s fired off an email. Just like that. Easy.

you make it back in time?

(He’s just—he’s been wondering. By the time they finally got her out the door and into a cab it was late—like, 5:20 late—McNally bouncing on her heels, “Sam, could you maybe lend me some cash?”, her mittens and her eyes and that stupid hat, the rush of cold air from the hall as she leaned back in to kiss him, and—well. He’ll be really amused if she wins the contest with $20.01, is all.)

He hangs around for a while, pacing between Personal Growth and the biography section. There’s absolutely no justification for it, but… there it is. He doesn’t really have time to feel stupid, thank god—she emails back almost immediately, long and rambling and full of typos. Some story about Epstein and one hundred-plus dollars in cash. And it’s not like—she’s working night shifts this week, he knows, Nash working days so she can be with her kid, so. Probably she was just bored.

She doesn’t sound like herself, in writing.

(Tucked away near the end, beside some anecdote about Ollie making bank on Dov’s victory: i had a really great time not winning.)

That’s the second day.

The third day—a Sunday; Irish thugs and their inconvenient refusal to push drugs after church—Sam wakes up to another email from her.

can i see you again?

It’s time-stamped from five a.m.; she must have sent it just after shift ended. Sam blows on his hands, glances around the empty library. There’s a kid staring at him from Self Help, but if Sam starts taking signs from the universe now, Andy’s never going to stop laughing.

sure.

(So. Three days.

Although really—

her head dropping back, messy hair and those long long legs, her skinny knees and the way she got a little selfish, a little insistent, the second time he tried going down on her

—Sam’s not all that surprised.)

They meet at some tiny lakeshore park, forty-five minutes up the 401. McNally brings shitty coffee; Sam brings Timbits (he remembers the way she used to inhale them on late-night patrols, one by one until she reached the sugar quota required for functionality). It’s far enough away that it takes her three buses and a cab to get there; Sam has time to psych himself out twice. He’s leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, when she finally walks up.

The thing about McNally: she has a really killer smile.

“Hi,” she says. She’s a little breathless, sweating inside her puffy jacket, like she maybe ran the last hundred meters. Sam stops thinking about calling this off.

“Hi.”

“I backtracked, like, three times, so.” She gestures behind her, as if to say, see; no stalkers. “We should be good.”

Sam rubs a hand over his eyes. Her grin is wide, infectious, like this is some great trick they’re pulling off, them against the universe. It’s not exactly an unattractive thing to pretend. “So Epstein beat you out, huh?”

She laughs. “Everyone beat me out, Sam; I had a twenty.” She comes closer. “Would you have bet on me?”

“Sure.” He gets a finger through her belt loops, pulls her the rest of the way in. “And been out fifty bucks.”

“Hey!” She shoves at his shoulders. Her hair’s in a messy braid down her neck; Sam wants to ask if she’s slept since her shift ended, but he also wants to put her up against the side of the truck, so. “I could’ve won.”

“Not playing pool like that.” It’s freezing out here; McNally’s all chapped lips and cold nose, shivering under her layers. Sam tugs her closer, rubs quick and brisk up the sides of her coat (he’s mostly aiming for warmth; still, she shudders, just a bit, when his palm slides over the edge of a breast).

Right before he kisses her, Sam thinks: this is a bad idea.

He doesn’t stop.

She hasn’t slept since shift ended, as it turns out.

Sam gets her in a bed (a motel; he’s stupid, sure, but there are limits), gets her warm and naked, and she immediately starts yawning. So. He spends the better part of the morning watching daytime tv with the volume on low, McNally out cold—“just for five minutes, Sam, seriously”—beside him. She sleeps messily, outflung arms and legs and an alarming amount of twitching. Sam watches the Mythbusters prove you can’t dodge a bullet and keeps his hands to himself.

(He dozes off twice: 'Sammie-boy, you are one dumb fuck,' Jamie Hyneman says in Oliver's voice, beret titled crazily sideways—

Sam agrees.)

Later, he looks on as she constructs lunch out of a truly odd combination of vending machine snacks (he tells her she’s disgusting and she shows him her tongue, half-chewed Skittles and a Cheeto, and Christ, she has the maturity level of a five-year-old, there is no earthy reason for him to be so—but he is, apparently, he really is, because he kisses her maybe two minutes after that; she tastes like cheese and sugar), and feels stupidly lucky for no reason at all.

(“Last time,” he tells her, hand on her waist. “Andy, sweetheart, this is the last time—”

“What?” She’s got her eyes shut tight, concentrating (she slides the rest of the way onto him and they open again; ta-dah). “No, yeah, totally. Last time.”)

so I lied, the email starts, two days later. This time around the library’s completely deserted, no kids watching from Self Help; yesterday on the job, Benny said ‘fucking Christ, J.D., what’re you smiling at?’ and nearly dropped an armoire on Sam’s foot.

The universe has a plan. Sure, McNally. Okay.

(They’re idiots, they’re idiots, this is the stupidest thing Sam’s ever—)

He cracks his knuckles, starts to type up a reply.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Okay." He ducks his head, makes sure she's looking at him (McNally, she really--sometimes you have to spell things out. It took Sam three tries to propose). "I think we can manage that."

Andy's answering smile comes out wobbly around the edges. "Yeah?" Like she's checking, like she needs to check.

"Yeah." He pulls her into his arms, toothbrush bristles scraping against his chest. "Andy, jesus--Yes."

(They could buy a dog, he thinks, or a bigger apartment--a house if they can swing it, kids need a backyard, and oh for god's--kids. As in plural, as in more than one. Sam is--well. He's going to need a different truck.)

Andy exhales shakily against his neck. Sam strokes her back. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"I don't know," she says into his shoulder, hands coming up to lock around his neck. Her mouth is wet and toothpaste-cool against his skin. "A while."

"A while," Sam mutters, lips curving against her temple. A while for Andy can be anywhere from thirty seconds to fifteen years, although if Sam had to make an educated guess he'd probably put this at someplace in the middle. "Okay."

Mother of god, a baby. They're going to have.

(They're going to make.)

Sam--yeah. Sam is still smiling.

Andy's lips press the hollow above his clavicle, soft and then with a little more purpose, tongue stroking along the hard ridge of bone. Sam hums a bit into her hair. "McNally," he says quietly, the tips of his fingers just brushing the spot on her lower back where her sweatshirt's riding up. "What do you, want to start now?"

She shrugs underneath his hold, quick up, quick down. "I don't--like. I just finished placebo week, so." She squirms a little, goes after his neck. "Google says it could work right away, but--"

"Wait, wait, wait." He catches her by the shoulders, pulling her off him; all this time and he still can't think when she's within two metres, contact with any sort of intent. "You googled this?"

"Sam." And she's got this--this face, like it's embarrassing, like she doesn't want to talk about it. Like wanting to have a baby and researching the necessary steps is some sort of horrible secret.

Right then, Sam knows. (She was like this when they first started getting serious, reading expensive restaurant reviews out loud to him and then, when it came close to their reservation time, announcing that no, it was a stupid idea, restaurants were dumb, she'd much rather stay in with pizza and beer.

It took Sam forever to figure out what that was about.)

"McNally." He takes the toothbrush out of her hand, sets it on the dresser. Cups her face. "Look. If I could've gotten you pregnant yesterday--hell, last year even."

(Two years ago. Three.)

Sam just--yeah. "I woulda done it in a heartbeat," he says.

Andy frowns. "Really?" She's got that scared, mulish look she used to get in the field way back when she first started, usually right before she did something stupid or brave. "You're not, like. Totally freaked out?"

(Yes.

No.)

"Well, sure." Sam swipes a thumb over her sharp, jagged cheekbone, slips his other hand back through her hair. "But, you know," he says, and rolls his eyes a little. "You're here."

(It's just a dumbass thing they say to each other, the kind of stupid shorthand you pick up when you've been with somebody long enough, but it does the trick: Andy grins once, wide and goofy and like herself, and Sam feels it like an electric shock behind his ribs.)

"Okay," she says, getting closer, two hands braced on his chest. "Then, um. Yeah. Let's start now."

Now. Okay. Sam can work with now. (Make a baby, they're going to--damn. It's different. It's really different.)

Sam combs the hair out of her face, palms the back of her skull. "Now's good," he tells her. He nearly has to clear his throat to do it. "Now's great." When he kisses her--and she tastes normal, she tastes like herself, toothpaste and that face wash that smells like oranges--it feels a bit like he's going to fly apart at the seams.

(Different, it's--yeah.)

Andy keeps stepping forward, shuffling them back to the bed; Sam's knees hit and he sits down, breaking the kiss. Andy climbs into his lap, warm bare legs coming up around his waist. She grins at him, quick like a secret. "I feel like I should light candles or something."

Sam rubs at her jaw. "Google say mood lighting'll improve our chances?" He unzips the hoodie to her navel--it's his, probably, how far down it comes on her--gets a hand inside the gap. Underneath, Andy smells like soap and cotton. She's not wearing a bra.

He gets his hands around the narrow span of her rib cage and bites, just a little, at the place on her neck that she likes. He waits for her to tip her head back so he can get at her sternum, the warm dip between her breasts--Sam's half-hard already and she knows it, rolls her hips a little bit in his lap.

"Hey," he says, easing back a inch or two, running his palms up and down her thighs. Andy's knees are a disaster, scars on top of scars on top of scars, stuff that should have gotten stitched up and definitely didn't. ("Ugh, don't look," she told him, the first time he got her jeans off. "I fell a lot when I was a kid."

Sam looked anyway, ran his thumb over the raised places, and if he hadn't been a little in love with her already--

well.)

He tightens his grip a little on her hipbones, just to keep her still for a sec. They can get each other off half-asleep, basically (there aren't really--uh. A whole lot of circumstances under which they can't get each other off) but if they're going to do this, Sam wants--hm.

(He's definitely--

the idea of getting her--

it's working for him, is the thing.)

Andy tilts her head at him, curious. Her sweatshirt's fallen off one shoulder, summer tan-lines still fading (god, Sam hopes the kid gets her genes; he burns as easy as--well.

Sam hopes the kid gets her everything.)

"Just." He strokes her hipbones, the folded-over waistband of her boxers. "Slow, okay?"

(His hands drift across to pet her stomach, almost like they have a mind of their own, and fuck, he wants--

he really, really wants.)

Andy blinks, watching his hands. And she's got to see it, how well this is working for him. (Christ, pitching in a tent in his boxers like a teenager over--

over--

Yeah, okay. Possibly Andy's not the only one feeling a bit embarrassed.)

Andy's smirking, though, that sly satisfied look she gets whenever she thinks she's got one over on him. She likes basically anything that makes him lose it a little, is a thing Sam learned about her early on (and the bravado he was expecting, sort of--abandoned building, no backup, I do what I want.

The follow-through, though--the way she just nodded, wide-eyed, and trusted him--that was.

Surprising.)

The smirk's more like a full on grin now, wicked just around the edges. "That's hot," she says matter-of-factly, pushing herself against his palms, and Sam chuffs out a desperate little laugh.

"McNally," he mutters, closing his eyes a minute, resting his forehead lightly against hers. "Just---give me a minute, will you?"

"Fine." She bumps their noses together. Sneaks a look back down between them at his hands. "One minute. Although--" and here she takes a breath and arches her back, sticks out her stomach a bit, rounding under his--Christ. "--It's not my fault you have a pregnancy kink."

"I don't--" (Well, okay, they way he twitched just then, but. It's never seemed particularly appealing before, is the thing, and Sam's pretty sure it's, um. Just her.) "Andy." He grits his teeth. "Seriously." Only she's still grinning at him, so he slides his hand down, cups her through her shorts, and--

She's wet. Like, through-the-fabric-wet.

So.

Sam hums at her a little, a what's that you were saying? kind of sound, and brushes his knuckles against the pale, soft skin of her inner thigh. He slips his hand inside the loose leg of her shorts--she's not wearing anything under those, either--and strokes her really, really, lightly, just the pads of his fingers, just to feel her. Andy whimpers.

(She's noisy, McNally. He thought she might be. It took a whole night and a couple of moderately painful bites to his shoulder to get her to stop trying to hold it in.)

Sam uses his other hand to get the sweatshirt off her--he wants to see everything, wants to maximize contact here. He loves her not like something new. He slips his hand out from in between them, leans back and takes her with him, then nudges her onto her side because yes--yes, he's going to take this slow, but he also wants her spread out underneath him, like, yesterday.

Andy goes over easy, rolling onto her back and stretching out, those long long legs. Sam shifts up onto an elbow and just--looks. And looks. And looks. (He knows everything by now, every inch of her body and the faces she makes, the way she bites her lip, but right now, right here--he wants to remember this; McNally-trying-to-have-a-baby. What that looks like.)

(Blown pupils and fidgeting, Sam come on, grey shorts gone dark where he pressed them against her--

"That's hot." Yeah, McNally. Yeah.)

Andy wiggles under his stare. "Sa-am," she laughs, "this is not getting me pregnant."

Sam raises his eyebrows; he grins once, quick and gone. "Oh, I'll get you pregnant," he tells her, and it comes out sounding a lot rougher than he means.

(Andy swallows hard, though, throat working--

so.)

He leans down and kisses her, tongue at hers and free hand wandering up and down her body--the fiberglass jut of her hipbones, the pale, familiar curve of a breast. Her nipple pebbles up under his thumb. There's a little knot of scar tissue right at her navel, a belly button ring she had when she was fifteen or sixteen, and every time he feels it Sam spends half a second wondering what she was like back then-- all skinny ribs and bad attitude, probably, some kind of half-broke horse.

Then she whines once, insistent, pulls at his shoulder 'til his full weight's on top of her, and Sam--yeah. Sam stops thinking about anything but this.

Andy wraps her arms and legs around him in a hug, pretzeled close. She kisses his ear, messy and quick. "Love you." Then she's swinging a leg up and around, using her toes to shove down his boxers (she's flexible, McNally--the first time she bent herself near in half trying to get him deeper). Sam grunts against her neck, helps her pull them the rest of the way off.

Goal achieved, she plants her feet on the bed, rolls her hips up. Rides him from beneath, nothing but wet cotton between. Some angle hits good for her and she drops her head back, pretty long throat and that sharp chin, but Sam--well. Sam is really done with clothing.

He hooks his thumbs around the waistband of her shorts. Brushes their lips together; once, twice, three times. "Love you."

(The first time he said it: they were standing in his kitchen trying to make dinner, a chicken breast half-thawed on the counter. McNally dropped her water glass. (And then, later, three knives and a spoon. Separately.)

The first time she said it: two weeks later, after playing him hot and cold for days, not calling and then showing up in the middle of the night, out of the blue. They were at work; she blurted it out in the empty meeting room after parade, went to book a witness with Diaz. Sam didn't stop smiling his whole shift.)

Sam gets her boxers all the way down, shifts his weight so she can pull her legs up around him. He slides along the whole length of her once, again, gets himself slippery, then--Jesus. Jesus.

(He keeps thinking that at some point he's going to be able to get his cock all the way inside her without having to take that deep, shuddering breath afterward, but--

hasn't happened yet.)

He takes a minute and looks at her underneath him, hair spread out on the pillow like a halo, mouth open, a flash of tongue and bottom teeth. She shifts her hips a little, getting comfortable, getting deep. She rubs one cold foot against the back of his calf.

It's--different. Yeah.

(It's, ah. Fucking intense.)

Sam plants his hands on either side of her head. "So. Google say which position works best?"

"Well." Andy strokes up his arms, pets his shoulders a bit. She has a thing for his tattoo, says it's lucky. (A buddy back in Sam's old Montreal unit had cancer; he got chemo, Sam and some other guys got his name in ink. Now that buddy has a wife and kid out in Brossard, so. She may not be wrong.) "Basically--" She's got her forehead all scrunched, like she's maybe not willing to admit she looked it up. "Basically this one."

Sam grins, rolling his hips into hers. "This one, eh? Can't move, McNally? Gotta lay back and take it?"

She narrows her eyes. "Oh, I can move." Arching her back and clenching on him, as if to prove it. Sam groans; she grins. "You have to get me off too." Tongue peeking out between her teeth (as if he ever doesn't). "Better for conception." She puts a snap on the second 'c', waggles her eyebrows.

"Oh, well." Sam smirks, angles his hips to hit the one shallow spot that always gets a noise out of her (he found it that first night, pure dumb accident, her eyes flying open in the dark; she gaped at him for half a second, and then she laughed maybe the dirtiest laugh he'd ever heard). "If Google says I need to."

"I'm just telling you." Andy shrugs, arms stretching out above her head, long fingers brushing the headboard. "Can't argue with science."

"Nope," Sam agrees, his teeth at her collarbone. "Definitely can't."

(Only--it's possible she is laying back and taking it, just a little. Letting him do more of the work than she usually does. Letting him--okay.

O-kay.)

Sam shifts his weight back, gets his hands around her wrists, holds her down a little. The rock on her finger bites into his skin.

"Sam." She wriggles a bit, pushing back against the hold, but not, uh--not as hard as normal. (She's not really still, McNally; the first couple times were more like sparing than sex, her knobby knees and sharp chin, lips and tongue and teeth and how it was all mixed up, him on top then her, again and again until they fell off the bed.)

"Yeah?" He transfers her wrists to one hand, gets the other down between them to trace messy circles over her clit. Andy whines, bucks up. "Uh-uh, McNally--" he brings his face down to hers. "Hold still. It's science."

Her eyes flash at him, but she stills. (And yeah, okay, she is definitely letting him--huh. That's...new.)

It's not that this would get him off all the time. Or most of the time, even, but--

(her spread out underneath him like that, wet and open and docile, and she wants him to--)

"Andy," he mutters, mouth against her temple and his fingers still working--a little harder than he usually would, since she's not getting the friction on her own. She's got her bottom lip clamped tight between her teeth. "Andy, Andy, sweetheart--"

There's a sound she makes like clockwork ten or so seconds before she comes, a sharp little hitch in her breath ("I do not," she protested, the first time he pointed it out to her, but she does too and he knows she started paying attention after that), and just as Sam hears it now Andy starts to struggle against his grip.

"Wait," she says urgently, forehead wrinkling. "Wait, can we--" she breaks off, that look back on her face again like there's something she wants but thinks is too lame to say out loud. "I mean, if we both--" She stops, tries again. "How close are you?"

(Close, is the answer to that question.

Like. Close.)

"What, you mean--" His fingers, stalled now, brush against her and she whimpers (and they don't normally pause like this, right in the middle; he can feel her fighting not to go over, the way she's clenching on him, like a warning, and fuck that's--yeah). "Both as in together?"

(They tried that once, actually, just to see if they could--way back in the crappy cover apartment, when they were painfully new. Andy sat on his lap and counted them down, laughing, and they absolutely 100% failed at syncing up anything.)

"Yeah, um." She breathes out through her nose, sharp and desperate. She is close. "It's supposed to, like. Help."

(Pregnant, jesus, they're going to--) Sam lets go of one of her wrists, guides it down between them so she has more control. Andy bucks up into her own touch, and god, okay, they need to do this now. "Alright, McNally." He hitches her up a bit. "Together it is."

It doesn't take long--not like this, her knees at his rib cage and her fingers at her clit (and, uh. McNally with her hand between her legs--that's something he might actually have a kink for, so). Sam groans, works himself deeper, until--

"Sam," she gets out, around a gasp. "Sam, you gotta--Sam."

Sam laces their fingers together, shoves himself down one more time, and then--

(oh god, oh jesus--)

He keeps his eyes open when it happens, watches her come apart underneath him. He wants to see this happen, if he can.

Andy's face is flushed and open. She finally lets go of that bottom lip (gone red and swollen now, teeth marks), whimpers her way through the aftershocks. Her eyes blink open and she grins. "Hi."

Sam touches his nose to her nose. "Hi."

They're silent for a while, catching their breath. Sam's startled out of his post-coital fascination with her neck when she whispers: "It'll be a September baby. You know. If it takes."

"Yeah?" He lifts his head to look at her. "Guess that'll make school easier--like, 'off you go, here's a present'."

She raises her eyebrows. "Bribery? Seriously?"

"Hey, whatever works." Neither of them sound very funny right now. (A baby, a baby, a baby--) "We should have two, play them off each other."

"Divide and conquer parenting, I like it." Only then she tugs him close, hides her face in his neck. "Sam..."

"I know," he says, and he does. "We're gonna be good, McNally. We're gonna be great."

Google also says she ought to lie still for a while, which for Andy is like trying not to scratch a full-body case of poison ivy. Sam slips the salty tips of her fingers into his mouth. "McNally," he says slowly, getting an arm around her waist, pulling her closer--that works on her sometimes, full-body contact, both of them warm and loose.

"Hm?" She fidgets a little, dark eyes flicking up at him, but Sam doesn't actually have much of a follow-up--he thinks maybe he just wanted to say her name.

("We're gonna be great," he mutters again, as much to himself as to Andy, and he palms the flat expanse of her belly until she falls asleep.)

Should we post this bad boy?

Hit me with your Canadian song lyric of choice, please.

The Hip do not lend themselves to babies. BUT. Assorted choices: "where the moonshot curtains part", "believing in the country of me and you", "on your everyday nights".

SHE'S HIS LOBSTER, OKAY?

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

A+ AT ANDY FALLING A LOT AS A CHILD

IT WAS BEFORE POPS MCNALLY GOT HER INTO ORGANIZED SPORTS.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

THE BELLY BUTTON RING MAKES AN APPEARANCE

YOU REALIZE I AM COUNTING ON YOU FOR SAM SWAREK TATTOO CREATION MYTH.

ASKED AND ANSWERED.

no subject

no subject

OBVIOUSLY THAT'S HOW THEY WOUND UP ON THE FLOOR.

THERE ARE NO OTHER EXPLANATIONS.

IS THAT TRUE, THAT IT HELPS? OR DID YOU JUST MAKE THAT UP?

CERTAIN CORNERS OF THE INTERNET SUGGEST IT IS SO.

AS ALWAYS, SIR, IT'S BEEN AN HONOR AND A PRIVILEGE

SIR, YOU ARE A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR.

ABSOLUTELY WE SHOULD.

THIS WAS TRICKY.