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

[threeguesses]

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. 

Comments

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

(Okay, so, possibly ever since you wrote him calling her sweeatheart, it's basically been my personal canon. Like, to the point that if he calls her anything else on the show, um, IT MIGHT SEEM A BIT OUT OF CHARACTER, is all I'm saying.)

BABYFIC. Oh Jesus Christ, get out of my brain. I want this a truly inappropriate amount. Just... Sam and BABIES. Sam trying to get her pregnant, I cannot even.

So. Those are my feelings on that.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

Ugh, and he's never been one of those guys who uses lame terms of endearment unless he's like, joking around, but with her he just, like, all of a sudden hears it coming out of his mouth. So.

Sam trying to get her pregnant, I cannot even.

UM.

I AM JUST SAYING, POSSIBLY WE SHOULD DO THIS ONE NEXT.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

WE SHOULD DEFINITELY DO THIS. THIS NEEDS TO BE DONE.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

(She's weird all day--like, all day, she's making him a little crazy, hot and cold and unnecessarily cranky over what to pick up for dinner on the way home and climbing into his lap on the couch and then complaining she's uncomfortable--and finally, while they're getting ready to go to bed, he asks her what the hell is up.

"What?" Andy blinks at him in the mirror, expressionless, like she has no earthly idea what he's talking about. "Nothing."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Okay, McNally," he says patiently (he still calls her McNally, sometimes, although technically she hasn't been a McNally for--well. For a while, she hasn't been a McNally. At work she wears the ring around her neck). "Whatever you say."

He's standing next to the bed pulling his t-shirt over his head when she comes out of the bathroom a minute later, still holding her toothbrush, Aquafresh smudged at the corner of her mouth.

"What do you think about a baby?" she asks.)

ALWAYS WHEN I'M IN MEETINGS THE AWESOME STUFF HAPPENS

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

And that is--okay. That is not what Sam was expecting. There's a good ten, twenty seconds where he just gapes at her, her hippo boxer shorts and an old academy sweatshirt, hair kinked from being up all day (he was expecting maybe something on her shift, is the thing, or--even though Oliver didn't say anything, so--but babies. A baby. Christ.)

"Are you...?" he starts, because she's on the pill but, well. There are accidents. (Friends for instance, Rachel Green and the box that says 99% effective; not that he watches, that he's watched, but sometimes Andy just has it on and--)

She's shaking her head. "No, Sam." Urgent, like there's something he's missing. "Like, a hypothetical baby."

Oh.

Oh.

RACHEL GREEN REFERENCE FOR THE WIN.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"You want--?" Sam can feel his forehead creasing up, that look he gets sometimes that Andy calls the Big Furrow. His heart is--hm. His heart is working, so. That's good. "You want to have a baby?"

Andy's eyes narrow, on the defensive right away. "Do you not want to have a baby?"

"That's not what I said." Sam drops his shirt on the bedspread, crosses the room to where she is. "That's not what I said."

(It's not that he hasn't thought about it. He's thought about it, if you want to know the truth, since way the fuck back before things got serious between them, her smile and those dark pretty eyes, but--

well. It's always been pretty serious for Sam.)

"Andy. Hey." He grabs her hands, toothbrush included. "You wanna have a baby. You and me."

Andy stares at him for a second, this look on her face like she might burst into tears, and then she nods.

Sam grins.

SHE'S HIS LOBSTER, OKAY?

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"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?"

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

"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?"

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.)

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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."

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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.)

A+ AT ANDY FALLING A LOT AS A CHILD

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.)

IT WAS BEFORE POPS MCNALLY GOT HER INTO ORGANIZED SPORTS.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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?"

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

"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.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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."

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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.

THE BELLY BUTTON RING MAKES AN APPEARANCE

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

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.)

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

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

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.)

SQUEE!!!! (and I do not squee)

[sivonni.livejournal.com]

You guys make me so happy.

[anitac588.livejournal.com]

*squee*

:D ♥

[surreallis.livejournal.com]

AHHHHH! I don't want to interrupt the thread, so I'll reply here and threeguesses should be able to read it too, since it's her LJ. But gahhh, you guys! SO GOOD! HOW ARE WE ALL CRAVING BABYFIC NOW? I just don't even KNOW.

Also, laughing slightly, because I know too well how it is when you're comment ficcing and alternating, and everyone goes right up to the edge of the porn but doesn't want to be THE ONE to START the porn, so it kind of hangs for a while. And then one person has to be all "Oh BLOODY HELL, I'll DO IT."

Hahaha.

[threeguesses.livejournal.com]

JUST SETTING THE MOOD, BROTHER.

[lowriseflare.livejournal.com]

Dude, the two of us have written so much porn in the last month or so that I feel like we owe it to each other to keep the romance alive. I mean, we haven't even bought each other dinner yet.